Monster Truck Mayhem
by bmax
Summary: House takes Wilson to a Monster Truck jam and mayhem ensues. My first story ever. Constructive criticism welcome. House/Wilson friendship. So sorry for the long delay. Guess what! Ch. 16 is up! House/Wilson friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hi there. This is my first venture into writing of any kind. I'm a sucker for hurt!House and decided to try to write a fic for the LJ community sick!House with a bit of humor thrown in. Hope you enjoy!

Monster Truck Mayhem

"Told you these tickets totally rocked." House gloated as he and Wilson meandered through the pits, glancing at the gigantic behemoths made of steel and fiberglass parked alongside their respective trailers. Some had names such as 'Maxzilla', 'Carolina Crusher' or 'Bounty Hunter' painted on the sides in obscenely bright colors.

"Never doubted you for a second." Wilson answered, keeping pace with his friend as he stared wide-eyed at the sights and sounds around him.

House had once again managed to get his hands on two all access passes for this year's Monster Truck Mayhem, the same event House had taken Cameron to a few years earlier. This time House had asked him in advance before actually buying the tickets.

"You don't plan on going on another date with any of my exes this time, do you?" House had cracked to Wilson, referring to the dinner date he had had with Stacy a few years back, causing him to miss the event. He remembered how House had looked like an abandoned puppy when he had told him he couldn't go. He wanted to cancel the dinner with Stacy but knew how desperate she had been to get help for her husband.

Wilson kept his love of monster trucks locked deep in the back of his closet, It was something he kept private, like admitting he enjoyed going to the ballet (House would have a field day if he ever found out about that one). The sport had a stigma about it; a stereotype. Everyone assumed fans were southern hicks with no education, sporting mullets, wearing baseball hats and only able to utter the word "Wooo!"

House, on the other hand, could care less what others thought. He would wear his Gravedigger hat proudly to work and watch Monster Truck Madness on his small television while the entire hospital staff passed by the glass windows in front of his office.

House had taken him to his first event about ten years earlier. As he watched the over powered, super charged behemoths leap into the air and crush everything in site, he felt the testosterone and endorphins flowing through him, a natural high he hadn't felt since he was a teenager, without the aid of chemicals in his system. There was something primeval about it, mindless. An escape from his otherwise boring and mundane existence.

"I'm hungry." House's voice snapped Wilson out of his daze.

"I'm shocked," replied Wilson as he turned to look at his friend currently clad in his Gravedigger paraphernalia; black T shirt emblazoned with a picture of the truck surrounded by gravestones and skulls, a green button down shirt and his green Gravedigger hat, complete with skull and crossbones. He was a veritable walking... well limping...billboard.

They made their way across the pits, occasionally glancing at the competition on the track surrounding them. Sudden Impact was racing against Carolina Crusher in the last quarterfinal race, the winner having to face Rampage in the semifinals. Gravedigger was top seed and was pitted against Black Stallion in the other semifinal and House wanted to hurry and get his food before the next round started.

They reached the food stand, House sighing audibly when he saw the line of people waiting in front of them. He shifted his weight fully on his cane, his right shoulder hunching as he eased the weight off his protesting leg. They had walked quite a bit and Wilson could see it was starting to take a toll.

House pulled out his trusty bottle of Vicodin and popped the cap with his left thumb. Downing a pill, he turned to Wilson and announced his order.

"Two hot dogs with everything but pickle and a Mountain Dew in one of those cool souvenir cups." House turned and started to limp away.

"What do I look like? A waitress?"

"You really want me to answer that?" House looked back at Wilson and raised an eyebrow.

"All you need is the cute little apron and maybe a low cut blouse. I'm sure Cuddy can set you up." House retorted over his shoulder as he continued to limp toward his destination.

"Wait! Where you goin?"

House stopped and pivoted on his left heel, "I'm gonna save us a prime spot for the semi's so we can watch Gravedigger kick Black Stallion's ass," responding as if it should've been obvious.

"How am I supposed to manage carrying all that?" Dumb question. Now he just waited for the witty retort...

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, being college educated and all." House yelled to the sky as he continued to make his way across the hard packed dirt towards the edge of the track, his cane leaving little circular craters in the loose dust.

After a few minutes of waiting, Wilson placed the order and managed to get the two giant sodas and four hotdogs precariously balanced in his arms, walking gently, feet stepping gingerly over the uneven ground as he made his way toward the edge of the track. One false move and...

"So, tell me. How does it feel to be a fan of a loser?" House said in a mocking announcer voice as he shoved the video camera in Wilson's face, the lens mere inches from his nose, earning a glare that would've singed House's retinas if not for the camera lens to protect them. Eventually a middle finger was able to free itself from its grasp from one of the hot dogs and let itself be known to a certain obnoxious ass.

"I got that on film. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Give me a hand, you ass."

House tucked the camera under his left arm and started clapping his hands together in mock applause, cane dangling from his right pinky and ring finger. Wilson's eyebrows became one as they knitted together above his scowl.

"Oh, relax Jimmy." House reached out to relieve Wilson of his drink and his hot dogs. "Where's your sense of humor?"

"I left it at the food stand because I didn't have enough hands to carry it too."

They both stood by the poor excuse of a fence bordering the track. It consisted of a string of flimsy plastic laden with small triangular flags with the name of one of the sponsors of the event printed in bold letters across each one. House leaned on his cane and munched on his hot dog while Wilson was playing with the settings on his camera which he wrestled back from House, chewing a mouthful of his own dog loaded with everything but onions.

Wilson let a slight smirk cross his features as he looked out of the corner of his eye to see the excitement building in the older man standing next to him. His blue eyes grew wider with anticipation and the childlike expression on his stubbled face reminded Wilson of a seven year old boy watching his first professional baseball game live, witnessing his favorite player in action for the first time in person. The baseball hat completed the image.

He looked away from the overgrown child and picked up his drink from the ground, a ring of dirt encircling the bottom of his cup, clinging to the condensation that had collected. He took a drink, turning his attention back to the starting line.

The semifinals were starting. Gravedigger lined up against Black Stallion. House's favorite against Wilson's favorite.

"So, why do you like Black Stallion? Shouldn't that be like, I don't know, Foreman's favorite?" House questioned.

Wilson just rolled his eyes and ignored House's disregard for political correctness. "I like the truck. Sue me."

"You need to find a different truck like maybe... Neediness Eater or The Enabler or something."

Wilson did his best to ignore House's remarks, staring straight ahead at the starting line as he continued chewing on his hot dog with a little more vigor than necessary.

"Fifty bucks- Gravedigger wins." House shoved the remainder of his hot dog into his mouth.. "Hw bwt it.." He mumbled through a mouthful of chewed up bun and beef.

"Yer on."

The overly ambitious announcer made the call as the trucks lined up, awaiting the green flag, the obnoxiously hyper voice echoing off every section of the stands.

Suddenly, the crowd went wild as the trucks accelerated with a deafening roar, shaking the outdoor stadium to its foundation; the smell of high-octane exhaust filled the cool spring air.

Wilson watched through the viewfinder as the trucks made their way around the track, creating havoc in their wakes. The trucks launched off the ramp simultaneously over a row of beat up cars, flying twenty five feet in the air and landing atop some less fortunate ones parked at the end of the line. Metal was crushed and debris flew as the crowd roared its pleasure.

"C'mon, c'mon..." House mumbled out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed on the straw poking out of his souvenir cup, nervously bouncing his cane on the ground in front of him.

As the trucks rounded the final turn, both men lost sight of them behind the giant hill which served as the finish line. They purposely wanted to watch the finish from slightly down the track so they could capture the trucks head on as they made their final launch across the line.

"Have the camera on the hill so you get Gravedigger smoking Black Stallion's ass." House yelled over the din of the massive engines and crowd noise.

"I know, I know." Wilson replied as he framed the finish line in the viewfinder. He quickly lowered the camera and tried to hand it to House. "You wanna do it?"

"Hey!" You're gonna miss it!" House pushed the camera back towards him and returned his focus to the mound of dirt with the giant checkered flags, "Just get the shot. Then we can watch Gravedigger's victory over and over again on your cheap VCR."

As if on cue, the menacing black and green machine catapulted into the air, a mere car length in front of Black Stallion. The front end stood up high in the air, the front wheels clawing at the sky as it left the ground and soared a good twenty feet off the track, the giant wheels spinning, spewing dirt and mud in every direction.

"Yes!" House raised his cup high in the air in salute, declaring victory.

The crowd went wild as Gravedigger returned to Earth with a resounding thud, its suspension working hard as the springs fully compressed to absorb the additional load.

A victorious grin on his face, House turned to Wilson, "Ha! Never bet against G-"

Without warning, the front left wheel buckled inward then broke loose from the metal beast looming just feet away from the two hapless fans. It took off like a Tomahawk missile, heading straight for the infield where they were standing.

"House! Move!" Wilson shouted as he caught sight of something large and fast heading directly toward them.

House's mouth dropped open in shock, frozen to his spot, cold drink paused midway to his mouth. Wilson turned and gave his friend a shove to the right as the wheel bore down like a giant buzz saw, threatening to cut them in half.

Unfortunately, House was caught off guard by the sudden shift in weight to his weak side. Pain shot up his thigh as his right leg buckled, refusing to support the extra load. He went down on his hands and knees as his cane dropped from his grip. He scrambled to get to his feet, palms flat against the ground as his left foot tried to find some purchase on the loose dirt. His eyes grew wide as he turned his head to the left and saw the eight hundred pound missile looming closer as it barreled through the makeshift fence, tiny little triangle flags getting caught up in the massive tread like tuna trapped in a fisherman's net.

Wilson dove to the left as if a grenade had been thrown his direction. He heard the enormous projectile rumble by him, shooting dirt and debris every which way; tiny stones and dirt pelting him, stinging like raindrops in a hurricane. It passed and continued through the infield, crashing into the middle of the food stand where he and House were just visiting a few minutes ago. The sound of splintering wood and crashing metal echoed in his ears as the little shack succumbed to the wrath of Good Year.

It was over in less than five seconds.

Wilson opened his eyes, blinking away the accumulated dust on his eyelashes, realizing he was face down on the ground but seemed to be relatively intact except for a slight burning sensation on his elbow where he must've scraped it upon landing. He lifted his head and squinted up at his surroundings, raising a hand to wipe away the dirt and grime from his face. He craned his neck, looked over his shoulder and noticed the distinct track in the dirt a few feet behind him, realizing just how close he'd been to becoming part of that tire. For a moment he imagined himself like one of those cartoon characters smashed flat like a pancake, helplessly spinning round and round, a permanent fixture to the tire's tread. He shakily pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and dropped his head to look at his chest, noticing his navy blue sweatshirt was now a dull shade of dusty brown.

He sat back on his knees, hands on his thighs as he shook his head to rearrange his brain into some kind of working order and brushed himself off. The last minute or so ran through his muddled brain in less than a second: Great race, cool finish, runaway tire, shoving House...

House.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to those who have reviewed and are following my story. Here's the second part. There will be one more chapter unless there is demand for more, then I'll see what I can do. Let the pain begin!

House.

Wilson's heart began racing as he leapt to his feet and started scanning the area around him. He spotted the tire sitting in the middle of the food stand, the young employee sitting on the ground a few feet away, scratching his head and staring in amazement at the new addition to his workplace. Others were starting to gather around the object, attracted to the scene like bees to a hive.

As his eyes continued moving to the left, he immediately spotted a lump of army green shirt and blue jeans about fifteen feet away. A few people were jogging toward the unmoving figure. His body tensed with adrenaline as his heart tried to leap out of his throat, limbs feeling tight and unresponsive as he willed his legs to carry him the short distance to his fallen friend.

House was currently lying on his stomach, his face buried between his right arm and clenched left fist. His torso was twisted: upper body face down, lower body lying on its right side, legs slightly bent. His position eerily reminded Wilson of one of those tape outlines of a victim on the floor of a murder scene.

Wilson knelt down next to his friend and gently placed his right hand on the fallen man's left shoulder.

"Greg..."

"Don't... call me that," the deep gravelly voice mumbled from his face down position, "I'm not dead."

Wilson inwardly breathed a sigh of relief hearing his friend's voice, even if it did sound tight and labored.

"You okay? What happened?" He knew that was a stupid question but he hoped House would give him some details.

"Just tell me... my foot's... still attached," came the reply through pained gasps as House continued holding a conversation with the dirt, "then we'll go from there." he breathed out.

"Which one? Did you land on it?" Wilson immediately suspected something was up with House's always-troublesome right leg. He knelt down next to the leg in question and started gently palpating for injuries, his hands running skillfully, feeling for anything out of the ordinary.

"No!" House gasped, "Don't touch..." He let out a shaky breath. "Not yet... Give me a sec."

Wilson could hear House trying to regulate his breathing as he fought for control over the pain, short breaths catching in his throat followed by a forced exhale. Sitting back on his heels, he decided to wait for approval before he'd try to touch him again. His mind was racing with possible scenarios: _Did he twist it? Land on it awkwardly? Couldn't have been hit by the tire... could he? _Wilson couldn't see any physical evidence to the latter. House was covered in dirt and dust but that told him nothing. In fact, his own clothing had turned a nice shade of brown when he hit the dirt himself. He continued to stare at House and tried to put the pieces together.

"No... more like some THING landed on it." House finally managed to answer Wilson's earlier question, " Oh, and you might want... to be checking... the other leg there, Einstein," he added through hitched breaths.

Hearing the strained words, he immediately bent over the left leg and started examining the limb for any possible injury . It didn't take him long to discover the problem. When his eyes reached the black and silver Nike, he noticed the odd angle of the shoe. It seemed to be angled outwardly, away from the leg, more of the sole of the shoe showing than should be. Damn.

While Wilson had been busy examining House, a small crowd had gathered, encircling the two men, staring down dumbly at the unmoving figure covered in dirt and dust. House was still facing the ground, unaware of the audience he was attracting. As he started examining House's left leg, Wilson vaguely heard the announcer describing the scene, the words echoing around the stadium. "_Incident...possible injuries...can't quite see what's happening. The ambulance is on its way...The finals will be delayed until we can...We'll keep you informed as we learn..."_

"I'm just gonna pull up your pant leg a bit." he reassured his friend. He gently lifted the pant leg, using both hands to shimmy it up House's calf. Immediately he could see under the gray rag sock the odd bend about three inches above House's ankle. It looked like a bridge that had taken too much weight and had collapsed in the middle.

"I'm guessing fracture. Tib-fib..." House muttered, the tightness in his voice waning just a bit as he seemed to be gaining some control over the pain. "Felt a snap."

"Looks like it." Wilson stated professionally, "we should try to get you on your back and stabilize that leg." He not only wanted to get him on his back but wanted to get a closer look at the break.

"I'm feeling pretty comfy right here, thanks," the muffled voice answered.

"House, you know when the EMTs get here, they'll move you anyway," Wilson continued to argue with the back of House's head, "and you know they won't be as gentle as I'll be. We just need to roll you on to your back." He felt a slight twinge in his stomach as he realized House may be hiding something from him. "You don't have any other injuries, do you? Spinal injury? Ribs?" He began running his hands over House's torso, feeling for broken ribs.

House's body tensed at the contact, squeezing his elbows to his sides "Hey! You mind? Not really the time or place to be feeling me up."

"Yeah, you're just so hot right now, I can't keep my hands off you." Wilson replied, glad to hear House's sarcasm returning but he obeyed his friend's wishes and let go, leaning back on his knees again.

"You can molest me later." House answered shortly. "More worried about my foot falling off at the moment."

Wilson let a small smile creep across his face. "I swear I won't let that happen."

"Scout's honor?"

"Since when were you ever in the Boy Scouts?" Wilson was trying to keep House's mind occupied.

"Military school. Same thing."

"I didn't know you went to Military school."

"One year." House answered, "Got kicked out."

This didn't surprise Wilson. He stored the information in the back of his mind and changed back to the subject at hand.

"When was your last Vicodin?" Wilson questioned. He knew this was gonna hurt no matter how gentle he was.

House let out a shaky sigh. "Too long ago."

Wilson vaguely remembered House popping one right before they ate. House popped so many of the little white pills, every dose seemed to run together in his mind but he thought about it and was sure he saw House take one recently. He did the math and figured it must've been only about twenty minutes ago.

"The last dose should be kicking in about now. You know you'll get the good stuff in the ER."

A slight hesitation before he heard the reply, "Yeah...fine. Let's just get this over with."

Wilson reached for the injured leg and took hold just above and below the fracture, feeling a slight flinch from House, "Okay, I'm gonna count to three and support the leg while you roll over to your left. Ready?"

"Whoa! Wait!" House interrupted, still facing the ground, "ON three or one, two, three, GO?

"Well, what do you want? On three or on go?"

"I don't care, just..." he sighed deeply, "On go, okay? So, one, two, three, go. Got it?"

"Got it." Wilson continued holding either side of the fracture and started to count again.

"Or how about on a hundred. Can we do that?" House was still trying to negotiate.

"House..." Wilson returned with a bit of irritation in his voice. He was growing impatient with the other man's stalling tactics even if he was in pain. He began to count again.

"...two, three," both men answered with "Go" as House turned to the left and Wilson held the leg as still as possible.

A broken "Ah,ah,ah,aaaah..." was all House could mutter as he rolled onto his back, his face contorted as he squeezed his eyes shut. Wilson tried to roll his hands with the movement but he could feel the looseness in House's lower leg and he swore he could feel the bones grind against each other as the position changed. Maybe it was just his imagination. Inwardly he cringed but kept up his professional demeanor.

"Someone grab me a shirt, anything, to put under his leg!" Wilson yelled to the small crowd surrounding them, kicking himself mentally for not thinking ahead. He was focused on the broken limb currently being held in his hands, trying desperately to keep it as still as possible.

House's right arm immediately covered his eyes as his face contorted into a tight grimace, hissing through his teeth as he tried to regain control over his rebelling nerves.

A woman stepped forward and placed a black sweatshirt under the spot where Wilson had indicated with a nod of his head.

"Thanks." Wilson acknowledged the woman providing the shirt, then focused again on his patient. "Lowering it now." He placed House's leg gently on the sweatshirt, his own body relaxing as he released the limb.

He continued inspecting the injury, noticing how the odd bend in his leg was more pronounced from this angle, but was relieved to see that the bones had not broken through the skin. It looked like House was just in for a miserable six weeks or so being stuck in a wheelchair with two bad legs. They'd know more once they got some X-rays.

He tried to reassure House, "Skin's intact, no other damage." as he continued to gently palpate the area. As he pulled the sock gently back up, he noticed the purple bruising starting to form around the injury along with some swelling that seemed to have started.

"Oh, goody. I was so worried." House moved his arm away from his face and stared up at the night sky.

"You know, if you wanted to show me some action you just had…" Wilson glanced up at House's face to continue his reply when he noticed the dark red stain smeared across his forehead, mixing with the dirt, creating a brownish grainy paste, "…House, your head." Fresh blood oozed from a jagged wound running vertically above his right eyebrow, dissecting the natural wrinkles in his forehead. "Look at your arm." He nodded towards House's right side.

House moved his right arm in front of his own face and stared dumbly at the dark stain covering the middle portion of his sleeve. Reaching up, his fingers touched the injury and stared again at the dark red smear on the pads of two of his fingers. "Huh. Didn't feel that." he answered flatly as he closed his eyes and calmly placed his left forearm over his face.

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**A/N: I know it's probably not the smartest thing to move someone with broken bones but I figured since Wilson was a doctor it would be okay and besides, it's my story and they'll do what I want. **

**Tib/fib: A term for the lower bones in the leg. Tibia and fibula. A Tib Fib fracture is pretty common when pressure it applied to the side of the leg. Both bones can snap from the strain. **


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I will be continuing this but don't look for an update right away. I've just started the rough draft of chapter 4 and I'm a ridiculously slow writer. If there's anything in particular you'd like to see, please leave me a comment. I have a basic idea where I want to go but am always open to suggestions!

Concerned with a possible neurological issue, Wilson leapt forward, lifted House's arm out of the way and pried his left eye open with his thumb and forefinger to get a better look at his pupils, instinctively reaching for his non existent front pocket where he kept his pen light. Realizing he didn't have it, he improvised.

"Look up at the light," motioning with his eyes towards the overhead lights surrounding the stadium as he grabbed House's chin.

"I'm fine!" House slapped the intruding hand away, "God, you're such a girl sometimes."

The same woman who offered the sweatshirt had now produced a wad of tissue from her purse and declared herself a nurse, offering to help out. She was a brunette with shoulder length hair and a hefty build. She looked like the type who could kick his and House's ass simultaneously. Who was he to argue if she was really a nurse? Besides, he'd take any help he could get right now until the EMTs arrived.

"Go ahead and apply pressure to that head wound," he instructed her.

"How do you know she's really a nurse?" House eyed her suspiciously. "She looks like that whacko from that movie, Misery. You know? The psycho bitch who tortured that dude?" he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"How do you know I'm not." The woman added, the corners of her mouth rising into a devious grin as she held the tissue in place against House's head.

House and Wilson briefly glanced at each other, slight concern on their faces until she winked at Wilson, making sure his friend couldn't see her face.

Wilson was becoming impatient, glancing around the infield. The ambulance still had not arrived. Didn't they keep an emergency vehicle on site during these things? There were too many trucks and haulers in his line of sight to have a clear view of his surroundings.

"Where's that ambulance?" he mumbled to himself.

The woman kept pressure on House's head wound even as she continued battling with him as he kept trying to swipe her hand away. House did his best to glare at her but the task was more difficult due to the amount of Kleenex obstructing his view.

"Those better not be used." House warned, pointing to the wad of tissue stuck to his forehead. "I don't need someone else's snot infecting my battle wounds."

"They're clean and hold still." She replied in a rather firm voice. Wilson was impressed as he watched her deal with House, not giving in to his childish antics.

"You don't work at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital by any chance, do you?" Wilson enquired while standing guard over House's lower half. He wondered if she recognized House by sight and already knew of his reputation at PPTH.

"No. St. Francis in Trenton."

"Good," was the response from below the wad of Kleenex.

House raised his head slowly, pushing his chin to his chest to glance down at both Wilson and his left leg, the woman's arm following along as if her hand was super glued to his forehead, keeping pressure on his head wound. "I know I'm not an orthopedic guy, but I don't think my foot is supposed to bend that way." He stated matter of factly.

"Good thing is I can't really feel this right now," nodding slightly toward his right leg, reaching down instinctively to rub his thigh more out of habit than actual pain. He leaned his head back again and tried to relax as much as a broken leg would allow. As he lay there waiting for the paramedics to show, he closed his eyes and the corner of his lip curled up into a slight smirk.

He peeked one eye open and glanced over at Wilson, "Please tell me you got that on tape." House continued to smile, "That was the coolest thing ever."

"Yeah, I got the finish. Now you're gonna rub it in my face about how wond-"

"No, not the race." House interrupted "This," he waved his hand toward his leg and at the tire lying thirty feet away wedged into the front of the small stand. "My Joe Theismann imitation." He looked back up into the blackness of the night sky, the stadium lights creating a halo effect around his peripheral vision. "Just think how popular it'll be on Youtube."

Wilson shook his head, "Only you would think it's cool to get hit and nearly killed by a runaway tire. And no, I didn't get it on tape. I was too busy trying to save your life."

"My hero." House replied with a roll of his eyes. "For all you know, I would've been just fine if you would've just left me alone instead of tackling me to the ground like some linebacker from the Jets."

"Not according to your Mountain Dew." A few feet away, the giant cup lay smashed flat into the ground, broken into pieces, the soda leaving a dark stain in the dirt around the plastic victim.

Wilson looked past House's feet and saw the remnants of the black cane now in two pieces, the orange flames separated from the black handle. "Or your cane."

"Crap, I just bought that cane..." House muttered, then he raised an eyebrow as he glanced back at Wilson, "Why is it that I'm always with you when my cane's break?" House questioned suspiciously, "That's three now."

"Correction,_ I _bought you that cane. And don't blame me for this one. I had nothing to do with it." Wilson replied as he raised his hands in defense.

"You had everything to do with it. I don't remember pushing myself and making my cane fly out of my unsuspecting hand." He returned back to the original subject. "It was totally cool. How many people can say they've been nailed by Gravedigger's tire." House emphasized Gravedigger's name as he bared his teeth and pushed himself up onto his elbows to meet Wilson's gaze, "Tell me you're not the least bit jealous."

"I'm not the least bit jealous." Wilson deadpanned, "I happened to like being able to walk under my own power."

"Wuss. Besides, walking's overrated." He leaned his head back again. "Maybe someone else got it on tape."

A white ambulance with a fluorescent yellow stripe rounded the corner and skidded to a halt in front of the destroyed food stand, kicking up a cloud of dust. The driver leapt out as the other EMT opened the rear hatch, already pulling out a gurney with one hand as his partner ran around the back to help.

"Ride's here," Wilson informed House who was currently resting his head on his own balled up Gravedigger green long sleeve shirt, trying to move as little as possible with his eyes closed and hands crossed neatly on his stomach. He slightly turned his head and cracked open an eye, scrutinizing every move the paramedics made as they hurried toward the scene.

"Don't they need parental consent before treating real patients?" House remarked. Wilson suddenly felt old as he looked at the baby faced EMTs approaching them.

"Be nice, House."

"Yeah, yeah," closing his eyes again.

The first medic approached the small gathering, kneeling down next to House's right side.

"What've we got here?" he asked, looking across at Wilson, who was currently kneeling by House's left leg, guarding it like a Doberman.

"Forty seven year old male. Injury to..."

"Do you mind?" House raised his head, pushing himself up onto his elbows again, shoulders hunched up by his ears. "I'm the patient here and I think I'm still able to talk." The nurse, who was getting a little tired of House's yo-yoing up and down, was still holding the tissues on the moving target, earning an exaggerated eye roll from House.

Wilson raised his hands in defense, "Fine. Be my guest."

"Sir, we need you to just lrelax. " The taller EMT ordered while gently supporting House's back with his forearm as he placed his other hand on House's chest to coax him back down. "Just tell me what's hurting."

As if on cue, another wave of pain crested, causing him to drop his head back between his shoulder blades, the tendons in his neck standing out under his skin. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sucked in a breath and reached for his left leg. House exhaled and gave a quick nod towards his oddly angled lower leg resting on the makeshift pillow, "Take a wild guess."

He raised his eyes and suddenly become aware of the gawkers encircling them. Glaring at the crowd that had gathered around him, he snapped, "Don't you people have anything better to do?"

The couple of staff members who were on hand took the hint and urged the ten or twelve spectators to disperse, leaving only a few stragglers behind who were either fascinated by other people's misfortune or had a compelling need to be annoying.

Cathy Bates, as House so aptly named the nurse, stepped back as the shorter tech removed the now blood soaked tissues that were sticking to House's forehead and wiped a gauze pad soaked with antiseptic over the site, attempting to clean out some of the dirt and debris. House winced, flinching away from the offending hand.

"Ow!" he whined, "A little warning next time."

"Sorry, sir." The medic continued his work, ignoring House's string of obscenities as he continued cleaning the wound in a professional manner. He began winding gauze around House's head, causing his already unkempt hair to stick out at bizarre angles above the band of white encircling his head.

Velcro straps were pulled and fastened as the medics worked quickly to stabilize the leg . Of course, House watched their every move with a wary eye, waiting to pounce on any mistake made by either one of the young paramedics. Wilson had to admit he was impressed with how fast and efficient they were. They allowed only a few choice words to escape from his friend's mouth as they diligently prepped the patient for transport. Before he knew it, House's leg was splinted and he was ready to be lifted onto the lowered gurney.

As one of the EMTs tried reaching under his arms to help lift him, House wriggled his upper body, trying to loosen the grip, protesting, "I'm not totally useless here," From what Wilson could see of House's eyebrows they seemed to be furrowing under the strip of white gauze. "And stop calling me 'sir'."

"House, for once in your life, would you just let someone do their job?"

The EMT reluctantly released House and allowed him to push himself over to the gurney with his upper body, scooting his rear over in an odd sort of butt walk. Hands, ass, hands, ass. Meanwhile Wilson and the other EMT lifted his legs and followed along with his scooting. They carefully positioned his legs on the thin white mat. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson caught sight of House's hand grasping the frame of the gurney in a death grip, knuckles turning white as he leaned his head back between his shoulder blades and regained control over the pain from the transfer.

The EMTs strapped down his legs but left the head portion of the gurney upright so House was in a sitting position, able to have a better view of his surroundings.

"Check it out. They must really be desperate for some action," Wilson heard his friend say.

Wilson glanced up at the gigantic video screen at the far end of the stadium to see an overhead shot of the small group standing in the infield with House at the center of the activity.

Something seemed to suddenly dawn on House.

"Where's my hat?" House's eyes darted left and right, trying to locate the green object. "Green, white, says 'Gravedigger' on it? Was on my head less than ten minutes ago?"

The paramedics were starting to wheel House toward the ambulance, receiving threats of bodily harm from the patient unless they stopped.

"I'm not leaving without my hat." Wilson watched House's head twist left and right, scanning the ground, the spectators, anything within his limited view.

"I'll get you a new one."

"Not the same. That one has sentimental value." House responded, head on a swivel, scanning the ground. "We've been through a lot together."

"You don't have a sentimental bone in your body."

Ignoring Wilson's jibe, House continued to scrutinize the crowd. "C'mon, people. It didn't just magically disappear," he accused, eyeing the few people who remained. "Hand it over, no questions asked."

A skinny kid emerged from the small gathering and stepped forward, his hands conveniently hidden behind his back, head hung low. He looked to be about fourteen years old with longer brown hair hanging in his eyes, bright green Gravedigger T shirt on his bony frame and a pair of tattered looking jeans. Wilson figured he must've been here with his parents who were nowhere to be seen. The kid brought his right hand in front of him, the dusty Gravedigger hat dangling from his fingertips.

"Is this yours?" his adolescent voice squeaked. "I found it on the ground over there," pointing with the hat to an area a few feet away from his location.

"Yeah, bring it here."

The boy approached House timidly as if he were about to be sentenced to detention by the school principal.

"Trying to steal my hat, huh?" House growled in his best intimidating voice.

"No!" the kid protested, "I was... I just found it on the ground." He handed the hat back to House who promptly placed it back on his head. Do to the bandage wrapped around his head, the hat sat up higher than normal. He reminded Wilson of Dale from King of the Hill, another one of those animated shows House had subjected on him during their long friendship.

A cheer erupted from the surrounding stands as both House and Wilson looked up to see a close up of House on the Jumbotron with the Gravedigger logo showing itself proudly on top of his head.

To Wilson's amazement he watched House's eyes locate the camera and stare directly at it. He removed the hat and pointed at the insignia then held up his pointer finger in a "We're number one!" gesture, shocking the hell out of Wilson. House had gone and turned into one of THOSE fans. The fans you see on TV making complete fools of themselves by painting their team's colors on their face or wearing a giant 'number one' foam finger, waving it madly in front of the camera. Okay, House wasn't that bad but it made him smile watching his antics, even while sitting on a gurney with two non functional legs.

"They're like trained puppies," House quirked as he seemed to be enjoying his newfound power over the crowd.

As the cameraman continued to walk towards them, a reporter seemed to appear out of nowhere to stand in front of the camera, commentating on the situation. House started gesturing wildly with a hand, motioning them to come over. The reporter's eyebrows shot up with a questioning look but approached him anyway.

The reporter moved in next to House and started his interview.

"We're here with the victim of this unfortunate mishap." The reporter started, "Tell me sir, how did-"

All of a sudden the microphone was yanked out of his hands as House held it up to his mouth and stared directly into the camera's lens. "If anyone happened to catch that little incident on tape, please send a copy to Dr. Gregory House at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," he continued while gesturing with a thumb toward Wilson, "he was too busy playing superman to get the shot. And besides, all he's got is a cheap S-VHS camcorder with a crappy picture." House added.

Shaking his head, Wilson turned toward the camera and politely offered a tight-lipped smile and waved, his eyes glancing sideways at the annoying person with the microphone sitting on the gurney.

"So, that's DOCTOR ," emphasizing the last word as he glanced at the paramedics out of the corner of his eye, "Gregory House at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

The reporter,unsure of what to do as he stood staring at the crazed fan sitting on the gurney with the microphone in his hand, flashed a fake smile at the camera.

House then seemed to turn on the 'pity the poor cripple' switch, playing to the crowd.

"Please. If you could find it in your heart to help a poor cripple." His eyes softened as he stared into the camera then grimaced in pain, clutching his splinted left leg. Whether it was for effect or real, Wilson wasn't sure.

House handed the mic back to the stunned reporter and rested his head back against the thin padding, looking relatively pleased with himself.

"Think they bought it?" House asked, a bit of tightness in his voice that only Wilson could pick up. He could see the lines of pain etched in his friend's features but refrained from asking any more nagging questions about his well being.

"You might've caused a few bleeding hearts."

Finally, the medics wheeled House toward the ambulance and started to lift him into the vehicle.

"Wait!" House's hands shot out to either side of the ambulance door, grabbing the frame, fighting the two EMTs who seemed to be tiring of their patient's ability to prevent them from doing their jobs. Wilson rolled his eyes to the sky above and shook his head lightly. He was surprised they hadn't strapped House's entire body down yet and use some wrist restraints.

"Sir, we need to get you to-" the medic stated calmly.

"Show's not over. I haven't seen the finals yet." he explained.

"Sir, your leg is br-" The taller paramedic started.

"I don't think it'll get any more broken by sitting here." He had a point there, thought Wilson. It seemed like his neurological functions were normal and no other major injuries he could see.

Both paramedics stopped fighting with their uncooperative patient and calmly set the wheels back onto the dirt, crossing their arms and waiting as Wilson approached him...again.

"House," impatience creeping into his voice as he rubbed his left hand down his face.

"I paid an arm and a... well, at least a leg for these tickets and I'm gonna get my money's worth," House stated, arms crossed, looking like a pouting four year old. "Gravedigger's in the finals and I'm NOT missing it."

"Hate to break it to you but they're not running the finals until the ambulance has cleared the infield and you're on your way to the hospital," Wilson said, "Besides, Gravedigger needs some repairs if you hadn't noticed." He paused, "Tell you what, I'll stick around and let you know who won. I'll even video tape it for you."

"Wow, what a guy."

"That's what friends are for."

"You're so thoughtful."

"House. Go to the hospital." Wilson said. "I'll meet you there." He hesitated another moment and added, "and don't make those EMT's want to hand in their resignations by the time you get there."

Wilson could see House mischievously eyeing the rubble that was once the food stand. A look that usually meant House's overactive brain was contemplating some insane idea or plan. This scared Wilson in an odd way.

House was still wearing a smirk, the pain occasionally causing a slight grimace, "Do you think I could take it home as a souvenir?" nodding his head toward the massive piece of rubber sitting amidst the wreckage of wood and assorted condiments.

"Um, at 1,800 dollars a pop? Doubt it." Wilson was amazed House could be holding a conversation while his leg bones were snapped in two. He idly wondered about House's pain tolerance. The man had come to know pain on a daily basis and had learned how to control it to a certain extent over the last seven years. He continued the conversation, "How would you get it home? Strap it to the top of your car?"

"We could roll it down the street." House was seriously thinking about the idea. "Or maybe I'll just strap it on your back and make you carry it." His face showing complete concentration as he faced Wilson, his blue eyes glistening from the overhead lights. "It would make a cool table. Throw a piece of glass over it. You know how those people use those giant cable spindles as tables?" House was rambling now. "I've seen tables made out of NASCAR tires.."

"That would be fine if you wanted a table six feet off the floor." Wilson added, pondering a thought. "Maybe you can make it a third bedroom. Think your bed could fit inside?"

"The smell of rubber might get annoying..." House wrinkled his nose as he continued his thoughts. "Maybe I can sue 'em for it. You know. Like collateral damage or something."

"Can't sue. Remember that release we signed at the gate?"

"Crap. Forgot about that. Do you think they really even look at those?" House's eyes lowered for a second as he looked to be in deep thought. "Crap, there goes my room addition. You wouldn't have had to sleep on my lumpy couch anymore."

"Will you please go now?"

"Fine." House signaled the two medics by making a lifting motion with his hands. "Let's go already."

The gurney was lifted and the two medics started to slide it into the ambulance as House grabbed the door frame once again.

Wilson had already started heading for his car in the stadium lot when he heard that all too familiar gravelly voice.

"Hey Wilson!"

He slowed reluctantly to a stop and turned around, his shoulders slumped as he looked up at the sky before giving House the benefit of a response. He could see House holding the ambulance door again, arms straining under his black T shirt as he fought against the two frustrated techs.

"What?!" he yelled from about thirty feet away.

"You owe me fifty bucks."

-------------------------------------------------------

A/N #2: I was going to end it here but I've had people who asked me to continue it so I'll give it my best shot. Just don't expect an update quickly. I'm a slow writer and it takes me FOREVER to get my thoughts on paper but I'll do my best! Thanks for all the reviews and alerts. I'm flattered! Hopefully it'll be updated in the next week or so. Meanwhile, I may get brave and post the other fic I've been working on for the last 8 months. Yes, 8 months. I told you I'm slow. Actually I have about four fics in the works but I've been too chicken to post anything. You all have made me a little more confident and I may start posting them.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and alerts. I appreciate each and every one of you!

Well, here's the continuation of what was originally going to be a short story. I had a few requests for Cameron to make an appearance so here she is. Don't worry, this is still going to be a House/Wilson story. Any suggestions or plot ideas are always welcome!

Chapter 4

The ride to the hospital only lasted about ten minutes but it felt like an eternity as Wilson ran through the recent events over and over in his head. Questions he kept asking himself: Did he do the right thing? Would House have been fine if he had just left him alone? Why didn't he just grab and pull him the same direction he was falling? Why was he having this argument with himself? Questions impossible to answer because it was a split second decision.

His mind returned to House and what lay ahead for the diagnostician. It didn't look too serious but with House everything seemed to turn into a major catastrophe. He'd make sure the ER staff did a thorough exam in case the stubborn doctor was hiding something, which he'd been known to do in the past. Only once could he remember House actually admitting his pain, asking him for help in getting an MRI on his leg when the pain had finally gotten unbearable. Even when House had been shot, he hid his discomfort while recovering at home even though he couldn't stand up straight, looking more like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Reaching for his cell phone, he punched in memory 4, hoping for an actual human on the other end.

"Dr. Cuddy." Her answer direct and to the point.

"Hi... Um...It's Wilson. We've got a little problem." Silence filled the receiver. "Uh..it's House."

"What the hell did he do now?" was Cuddy's response as she automatically assumed House had once again wreaked havoc on the poor unsuspecting town of Princeton.

"Actually, he didn't do anything this time. He was hit by... a um... tire from a Monster Truck." Why did that sound so odd coming out of his mouth?

"What? You've got to be kidding me. Someone throw it at him?" Probably thinking House had provoked the incident somehow. "He with you?"

"Uh, no. They've taken him by ambulance. Tib fib fracture for sure," he replied, "some cuts and scrapes."

All of a sudden her tone became more concerned. "Is he conscious? What do you need?"

"You know how he can be. I was wondering if you could play interference in the ER so you don't end up having your entire ER staff quitting tonight."

"Good point." Cuddy agreed. "I'll get on it."

As he entered the hospital parking lot, he could see the ambulance parked in front of the ER entrance, emergency lights still flashing, reflecting off the brick walls, causing an an odd discotheque appearance in the bay. He got out of the car and walked-jogged across the parking lot, demonstrating the 'I'm in a hurry but trying to look like I'm not' walk as he approached the sliding glass doors of the emergency entrance.

-----------------------------------

House sat on a makeshift bed, stuck in the corner against the wall like a piece of bad furniture. He had been transferred unceremoniously from the gurney to the spare bed by the not-so-patient EMTs who were more than happy to drop him on his ass as soon as possible.

He sat there with both legs out of commission feeling like an animal caught in a trap, unable to flee from potential predators, or in this case, the ER personnel. The left leg was becoming more and more angry at having its framework rearranged, setting off a raging fire that seemed to encompass the entire lower half of the limb.

He looked down at the bright red vacuum splint extending from his hip to his toes. It looked as if someone had wrapped a rubber raft around his leg. At least he was prepared if the hospital sank in some unexpected flood or tidal wave.

The tip of his Nike stuck out just above the splint, looking like a turtle trying to poke its nose out of its shell. The EMTs thought it best to leave the shoe on until he was seen in the ER. He kept trying to wiggle his toes but each attempt sent electric jolts from his foot to his knee, causing him to involuntarily jerk with the movement. He was starting to get a bit concerned when a young girl sporting pink scrubs and a black ponytail approaching him, carrying an IV kit interrupted his thoughts. She looked like she was barely out of high school and seemed a bit unsure of herself.

An intern. Great.

She held in her right hand a pair of trauma scissors used for removing clothing, her face held signs of fear and apprehensiveness. Setting the IV kit down on the mobile cart, she gripped the scissors with her thumb and finger, ready to snip, "I need to go ahead and get your clothes-"

"If you think you're cutting my clothes off my conscious body, try again." He dared.

"Dr. House, we need to get you in a gown. The doctor needs to examine the rest of-" the nurse tried to explain.

"First of all, you are NOT cutting off this shirt," he interrupted, pinching the black material between his thumb and forefinger, "and second of all, we're in the middle of a room with fifty other people! Whatever happened to a little privacy?" Truth was he really wasn't that modest, he just didn't feel like moving at the moment. He was as close to comfortable as he was going to get at the moment and didn't want to ruin the relative peace in his lower extremities. "Until I get an actual room or at least a real bed with a curtain, they stay on."

"But...I...we...need to prep you for an IV and do a thorough exam."

House thought for a second. IV meant drugs. Drugs meant relief. Well, if he was going to move, at least he'd get rewarded for his efforts.

He reached down and grabbed the edge of his t-shirt and in one swift motion pulled it over his head, stretching the neck out a bit to avoid his forehead which was still overly wrapped like a mummy.

"Um...thank you." She held up the gown and looked unsure about whether to help put it on, deciding to just toss it loosely into his lap instead.

Arms were slipped through the sleeves and the front flaps wrapped around his torso, covering the important parts even though he still had on his jeans. He leaned back against the head of the bed once again, starting to wonder what was taking Wilson so long to get there when he felt a cold glove wrap around his forearm.

--------------------

She was on her third attempt at starting an IV, the cannula shaking along with her hand as she palpated the top of his wrist for another vein. She'd already left puncture wounds in the crook of his elbow in two different locations. He felt like a freaking pincushion.

"You know if you can't start an IV with my veins, maybe you should look for another career," House stated, "like maybe flipping burgers." How hard was it to find a vein with his vascularity? They were like overflowing blue rivers bulging under his skin, creating a three dimensional road map that even a pre-med student could find.

The little bit of patience he had remaining was ebbing as the pain increased, radiating from just above his ankle up to his hip. An occasional jolt making him flinch, his teeth gnashing together as he rode out the short bursts of agony. He had also become a bit concerned because he really couldn't feel anything below the break, his ankle and foot feeling almost numb except for occasional pins and needles. The paramedics had (surprisingly) done their job and checked his pulses below the fracture but it was still a bit disconcerting. He was sure his shoe and the snug fitting splint were the only things keeping his foot from swelling to the size of Shaquille O'Neal's if it hadn't already.

He continued to stare down at the shaking pink gloves as he prepared himself for more poking and prodding when he made a grab for the hand holding the IV needle, causing the young girl to jump. "Gimme that," he stated sharply, making sure he didn't get stabbed in the hand as he held her wrist firmly. "Do I have to do everything myself around here?" The intern reluctantly relinquished the IV kit like a scolded puppy giving up a chewed up shoe just as another pair of hands came into view and snagged the prep kit from between House and the intern. Raising his eyes without moving his head, he caught a glimpse of blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, a few wisps hanging loosely around her face. He followed her neck down to the light purple scrubs.

"I've got this," she said, "Go take care of number eight," nodding toward the bed at the other end of the room.

She turned her eyes back towards his face, glancing up at the white bandage wrapped around his head and then scanned down his body to the bright red splint keeping his left leg stable. All he got in response was a slight shake of her head as if she were his parent disappointed with his school grades.

"So, what brings you here on this lovely Saturday evening?" He greeted with mock cheerfulness.

She remained professional. "Well, let's see... I WORK here." She started to busy herself examining the rest of him, lifting his arms, lifting the gown to examine his torso. "And Cuddy called me. Seems she found out about your little...accident and wanted me to find you."

"So, you were sent to rescue me." A pained smile crossing his features.

"More like rescuing them from you." She motioned with her head to the surrounding activity filled with nurses and ER doctors.

Gently probing his wrist with her gloved finger, she located a viable vein and took hold of his arm with the opposite hand.

"So, aren't you supposed to seduce me before stabbing?" He said, raising his head a bit so his eyes met hers.

A smirk crept onto her face as she expertly slid the needle into his vein, taping it in place in one smooth motion. "Do you have to treat every doctor and nurse like they're idiots?"

"No, only the ones that are actually idiots, which is pretty much all of them." He looked at her expression of disdain. "Don't worry, you're not included in that group."

"I'm so relieved. Should I even ask what you did to yourself this time? I thought you were going to that Monster Truck thing with Wilson." She continued working on the IV, starting a morphine drip. "And why didn't the paramedics start an IV on you in the field?"

Speaking of Wilson, where was he? He thought as he felt the drug enter his system, causing his head to swim, separating his brain from the turmoil in both of his legs. His eyes fluttered slightly as he visibly relaxed from the relief. He hadn't realized how rigid the rest of his body had become as he fought for control over the pain for the last who-knew-how-many minutes... or hours. His concept of time seemed to have disappeared somewhere.

"Are you kidding me? No way were those med school dropouts inserting anything in me," he answered, trying to keep his focus on the subject at hand as he felt the Morphine overtaking his thought processes.

She took his exposed elbows and wiped antiseptic over the minor scrapes, getting virtually no reaction from the drugged diagnostician. She finished and set his arms back beside him.

His eyes closed as his head sunk back into the pillow. The drug was doing its job and then some. "Din do anythin... Grvdgger's fault," he mumbled, " A Jam...not a thing."

"Sorry... Jam. What do you mean Gravedigger did it? Did you get overly excited and try to jump for joy when he won?"

"White men can't jump...'specially crippled white men." His head felt like it was detached from the rest of his body and floating somewhere up in the stratosphere. It would be a waste of good drugs not to enjoy the temporary respite from the pain but he felt compelled to finish explaining for some odd reason. "Hence the reason for this," motioning with his hand to his leg as he kept his eyes closed. Time to let the drugs take him to Never Never land... or was that La La land?...one of those lands...

Suddenly he felt cold metal against his forehead, snapping him out of his drugged bliss as Cameron started snipping away at the gauze wrap.

"Y'mind?" He attempted to knock her hand away, but for some odd reason his arm didn't feel like listening to his drugged brain. Instead he ended up giving her a slight nudge on the forearm before his hand dropped back to the sheet.

"Jesus, how much did you give me?" Glassy eyes staring blankly at the small wrists hovering over his line of sight.

"Fifteen milligrams. Within normal protocol."

"Barely..." He slurred.

She stopped working and looked directly at him, "Are you actually complaining about having too much pain relief?"

"No... just like to have control over my own body... so no one decides to take advantage of me in my vulnerable state," he mumbled, closing his eyes again as Cameron returned to examining his head wound.

She started picking at the edge of the gauze wrapped around his head, noticing the slight crimson color above his right eyebrow seeping through the white cotton. "I really do need to get a closer look at that head injury."

"Just can't help yourself, can you?" He allowed her to remove it without any more objections. Honestly, he was glad it was her and not some loser intern or incompetent doctor doing the job. "Gotta fix everyone."

Ignoring his remarks, she continued, "We need to irrigate this," she noted while her thin gloved fingers gently probed the still oozing jagged cut. "There's still some dirt and debris." She reached behind her and grabbed an irrigation bulb filled with saline. Holding an emesis basin up to his forehead she aimed the tip and started flushing away the remaining debris along with some of the blood that had dried around the wound.

House grimaced as the saline jolted his nerve endings awake again. He swore he could feel the flaps of skin and tissue bordering the cut move from the force of the liquid.

Cameron finished irrigating then wiped up the solution that had run down around House's cheeks and ears, blue-grey eyes studying the wound carefully. "You need sutures." She received a half-lidded attempt at a glare in return. "Don't argue with me- you can't escape. Want me to go ahead and do it?"

"Don't think I have much of a choice."

She took that as a 'yes' and grabbed the suture kit and some Lidocaine.

Holding up the syringe of local anesthetic, "Yes or no?"

"How many?" Referring to the number of stitches. If it was only a few, he could deal with it. More than ten, he'd get the local. Besides, the dose of morphine had him flying pretty high at the moment.

"Maybe six or seven?" she answered as she eyed the size of the gash.

He shook his head once lightly. It would take just as long for the injection as it would to close it up. He hesitated for a moment, "Just do it."

As he watched her work through hazy eyes, he couldn't help wonder why she was wasting her talents in the ER when she should be working diagnostics, using her brain instead of letting it waste away in this pit. Even though today he was grateful she did work here. At least she could start an IV without him needing a blood transfusion to boot.

The sutures only took a few minutes, gaining an occasional grimace from House each time she inserted the suture needle into the wound. She snipped the last stitch and stepped back to scrutinize her work. He was finally able to reach up with his right hand which seemed to be answering his brain's commands once again and ran his fingers lightly over the thread now holding his forehead together.

"Shouldn't scar too bad."

"Better not. Don't need people mistaking me for Harry Potter."

A swish was heard as the double doors leading from the ambulance bay slid open, and they both turned their heads toward the sound. A familiar figure entered the ward, eyebrows furrowed as his eyes scanned the crowded area. Cameron caught his eye with a wave of her hand.

He strode toward them. "Still sitting here?" Wilson finally made it over to them after stepping around and evading several wheelchairs and scurrying staff members. House was still running his fingers gently over the spider-like black knots on his newly sutured forehead. Wilson glanced at Cameron who was currently ripping off a piece of first aid tape.

"No. I was actually out running the New York marathon when an overzealous water person ran into me and I ended up here." Always the smart ass. "What took you so long?"

"Took me nearly fifteen minutes just to get back to the car." Wilson had dropped House off at the entrance to the stadium and had refused to use House's placard, stating how he wanted to leave the handicapped space open for someone who truly needed it. House had of course argued about how he would've parked there if he drove so what difference did it make? Wilson had just waved him off and drove off to find another spot farther...much farther from the entrance, leaving House sitting at a bench for fifteen minutes.

"If you would've listened to me you could've been here sooner."

"Yeah, I really wanted to rush right over here to get berated by you over the proper etiquette for handicapped parking." He retorted.

"Hey Wilson." She turned to greet him. "So, it really wasn't his fault?" She glanced sideways at House while holding the conversation with the oncologist.

"Nope," shaking his head lightly, "Not his fault this time."

"Told you! You can actually blame Wilson." House added as he continued playing with the sutures. "Ask him how he pushed me in front of a runaway 800-pound tire."

Cameron looked at Wilson questioningly. Wilson's lips became a thin line as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I didn...I wasn't..." He looked back up at the two of them, "It was a split second decision. I reacted... You could've been killed."

"Or I could've walked out of there with only one bad leg instead of two." House knew how to dig into Wilson's guilt-ridden conscience.

"House, we don't need to-"

"Dr. House?" Wilson was thankfully interrupted by an orderly who looked a little unsure about stepping into the conversation. "I'm supposed to take you to radiology."

"About time. The bones have probably healed already." In reality it had probably only been about a half hour since he was admitted, but felt like an eternity.

He was wheeled down the hallway and into the small room with the large pieces of x-ray equipment looming overhead like giant transformers, slight trepidation washed over him as his clouded mind suddenly realized what was about to happen.

A/N: Sorry, not much Wilson in the chapter but he'll be very prominent throughout the rest of the story. If there are any medical terms you would like explained, feel free to ask. I tried to do my homework and researched dosages and protocol so hopefully it's within specs.

Anyway, thanks for reading! I have a feeling this is going to turn into a loooong story. Already have a general outline worked out.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks so much for all of your wonderful comments! Honestly, it does make me want to keep writing. Also, thanks so much to 2tailswaggin and Magie05 for all of their wonderful input and suggestions. Go check out their work as well! They are both excellent writers.

The character of Dr. Chris Masterson is being borrowed from Sydedalus with permission. I just loved that character so much! If you want to read a wonderful, well written hurt!house fic and haven't yet heard of this amazing story, go check it out. It's called Some Days are Worse than Others. Dr. Masterson makes an appearance in that story.

Sorry for the ridiculously long author's note, but I just felt those things needed to be said. Once again, any and all constructive criticism welcome and I am open to suggestion for the story's future plot.

Chapter 5

He was lying on his left side as the tech positioned his leg on the table once again for what felt like the fifteenth picture of his leg. The brace had been removed along with his pants which unfortunately had to be cut off. He'd spent many years wearing in that particular pair of comfortable jeans, but there was no way he was going to manipulate non-stretchable denim around not only his bad thigh but around an ankle and foot that couldn't handle being jostled in the slightest.

Memories from his childhood came flooding back to when he was about twelve and had broken his arm. His dad had enrolled him in football, saying 'it'll toughen you up'. Even though he was tall, he was very thin, lacking any kind of muscle tone. He was fast, but his slight build was no match for the larger kids who probably outweighed him by thirty pounds. All he could remember at the time was catching the ball and being blindsided by a bus. Next thing he knew he was staring up dazedly at several adults and teammates leaning over him, his left arm feeling as if it had been placed in a vice and crushed. He remembered trying to be strong in front of his team but was unable to hold back the tears as the coach helped him off the field, his arm cradled against his stomach. Hazy memories of the pain and screaming as his arm was positioned for each X-ray resurfaced while he endured the similar torture on his leg.

The tech moved his foot, changing the angle for the next film, sending him to a new level of agony. He swore he could feel the bones grinding together as he held in a girly scream.

"Jesus!" He hissed through his teeth, "This isn't a damn Yoga class!"

"Almost done. Just one more shot. You're doing great." The overly patronizing male voice echoed from behind him.

He would've let go with a string of obscenities if he had any oxygen left to spare. The last twenty seconds had been spent holding his breath while his broken limb was wrestled into position for the next shot. Feeling a bit lightheaded, he decided to blame his haziness on the morphine and its effects on the respiratory system, even though the dose had been reduced to 'it's taking the edge off but I'm still conscious' levels. Biting his lower lip, he squeezed the side of the table with his right hand and swore he was leaving an indentation in the cold metal.

He opened his eyes and spotted Wilson's furrowed eyebrows before noticing the soft brown eyes peeking through the glass partition just above the frame, the hood of his sweatshirt bundled up behind his neck made him look like some high school kid peeking in the girl's locker room. Closing his eyes again, House decided to try to avoid the puppy dog staring longingly through the window.

The click of the machine signaled the end of the torture session as House finally released the edge of the table and rolled over onto his back, panting like he had just orgasmed after having amazing sex, not that he could remember what that felt like. He sure didn't remember this much pain being involved. Once again, he opened his burning eyes and shot a glare into the back of his tormentor's head.

House saw the tech motion to Wilson with a wave of his hand that he was done and verbally announced it to House, who had been secretly wishing something large and heavy would fall on the man.

Wilson and the orderly had the honor of transferring House back to the portable bed, pushing it back to the same vacant spot against the wall that they had been occupying for most of the evening. House was drained from the experience and felt slightly nauseous, his head spinning as he tried to get his bearings. Overhead lights, hospital staff, and patient rooms went by in a dizzying blur. He dared a glance above him, catching a glimpse of Wilson's chin and noticed he was able to look right up Wilson's nose from that angle.

The oncologist had glanced down, noticing the glassy blue eyes staring up at him.

"Please, don't tell me you trim you nose hair." House had mumbled, closing his eyes as a bit of vertigo washed over him as Wilson's head seemed to start orbiting above his pillow.

"Alright. I won't tell you." Wilson continued to stare toward his destination.

They made it back to the ER which seemed just about as crazy as it was before they had gone to radiology. House was exhausted and decided to turn off the rest of the outside world, placing his forearm over his tired eyes as he tried to relax as much as his abused body would allow. Wilson picked up on House's signals and decided to take advantage of the respite to grab some much needed caffeine.

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House watched Wilson sip at the coffee he was sure tasted like muddy water since it was from the ER waiting room. He had stolen coffee from there one time in desperation when his department (and the rest of the hospital, it seemed) had run out. Wilson's screwed up face after he took his first sip was verification of how much their coffee still sucked.

Clad only in a hospital gown, House was covered with one of those ugly green hospital-issue blankets, wearing the cumbersome brace once again after it and his shoe had been removed, which was another experience in itself, for the X-rays. His sock had become a casualty of the trauma shears.

Keeping unusually quiet, he continued to pout while they waited...again for an available room, bed, doctor...anything. He would've been happy to see a pizza delivery guy come through the door at the moment. He hated this. He was hurting, tired and had way too much time to think about things he didn't really want to focus on at the moment, like how he was even going to function every day being stuck in a wheelchair for who knew how long. As if the damn cane wasn't enough.

He decided to break his silence. "Good thing I'm on staff here," House announced loudly, sarcasm ringing in his voice, "otherwise I might still be sitting and waiting in the ER... oh wait..." raising his finger to his chin in mock thought as he made an over exaggerated scan of the room.

Wilson was seated on a chair against the wall by the foot of House's bed. "Give 'em a break." He replied, turning the page of an outdated People magazine. "There was a five car pile up on the Brunswick Pike. They're a little swamped tonight."

"How do you know?" House asked with an inquisitive look.

"Overheard the nurses at the check-in desk while I was getting coffee."

"Oh yeah. Thanks for asking if I wanted some." He didn't want any of that nasty sludge but felt compelled to annoy his friend.

"Well, the coffee sucks if it's any consolation," he took another drink, wrinkling his nose at the Styrofoam cup.

"You could've asked if I needed something in my delicate state." House whined.

"Nice try. No. And you're not pregnant." Was all Wilson needed to say.

House went back to his silent brooding, his eyebrows furrowing occasionally as the pain crept back up to nearly unbearable levels, breaking through the morphine barrier. Maybe he should've let Cameron stone him into unconsciousness. At least the time would pass much quicker...

They both sat in silence and watched the activity around them. Doctors and nurses scurrying from bed to bed, caring for everything from flu-like symptoms, to appendicitis, to major trauma. House let his eyes wander around the room. MVA-boring. Flu-boring. Gunshot wound to the abdomen-boring. Sprained ankle-boring. There was no challenge here. Every diagnosis was obvious, as were the designated treatments. How could Cameron stand the monotony?

He looked back at Wilson who was still engrossed in the old magazine. "You know, none of the couples in there are actually still together."

"I'm reminiscing about the good ole days. Brad and Jennifer made a cute couple."

"Cute? Brangelina's better. They both want to save the world one child at a time." House added, his voice taking on that of an overly sappy announcer.

Wilson glanced up and grabbed House's attention. "Oh, while you were pouting I did you a favor and paged Masterson."

This gained an eye roll from House. "I wasn't pouting and why did you call _him?" _

"What? Would you prefer to have Jenkins or Simpson work on you? You know he's the best." Wilson added, "and yeah, you were pouting."

"I was resting."

"Whatever."

He knew Masterson was good, very good, but he'd never admit it to either him or Wilson. He was not only an excellent orthopedic surgeon with a great reputation, but he also knew House's history better than anyone else, having performed surgery on House's thigh a year after the initial muscle debridement.

Masterson had gone back in to clean out a large amount of scar tissue in House's quadricep that had been impinging on some of the nerves, causing mind numbing pain, preventing House from being able to bear any weight on the leg. The slightest step would send him to the floor, writhing in pain as the damaged nerves wreaked havoc on his body.

House had improved dramatically following the surgery, giving him more mobility and finally allowing him to graduate to a cane from the cumbersome crutches he had been forced to use for almost a year.

Subconsciously, House reached for his right thigh and massaged it gently as if he were trying to erase those vivid memories. After a few moments, he returned to the subject at hand.

"He working?"

"No. I don't think he's even on call but he missed you so much, he's making a special trip over here just to see you." Wilson replied.

"Oh goody. I feel so loved."

"When he gets here, make sure you give him a big hug." Wilson added, returning to his reading material.

After a few minutes of relative silence, House started fidgeting around, his lips pursed as he glanced around the room anxiously, a familiar burn becoming harder and harder to ignore.

Wilson took notice of the squirming coming from the bed. "Pain?"

"No...well yeah, but that's not the problem. Gotta pee." It had been well over three hours since he was brought in and his bladder was beginning to remind him of the massive Mountain Dew he had almost finished and how long it had been since he relieved himself.

"Hang on." Wilson stood up and headed around the corner out of sight, returning about a minute later with a portable urinal grasped in his hand.

"No." House shook his head. "You'll either help me to the bathroom or I'll wait till I get a room."

"I'm not helping you to the bathroom. In case you've forgotten, you can't walk let alone stand and I'm not about to lift your heavy ass onto a toilet until that leg is set. It's this or a catheter."

House scanned the room, searching for something ,anything that might solve his little dilemma. "You can take me in a...wheelchair."

"No. You're not going anywhere and I don't think you'll crawl there so--" Wilson thrust the urinal into House's chest, "use it."

House slammed the urinal down on the tray, a metallic clang echoing through the cramped confines, causing a momentary silence in the room before things returned to normal. "Fine, I'll hold it then until I get a room or my bladder explodes." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, the IV line still dangling from his left hand like a tether.

"That might be a little messy. And since when have you been shy about sharing your bodily functions?" Wilson asked, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Since I became incapable of escaping the scene of the crime."

House winced again as he tried to push himself up a bit more into a seated position, sending another electrical shock through his already angry leg.

"You okay?" Wilson asked, concern returning to his voice.

"Yeah..." House breathed out. "Just getting tired of sitting in one place." He paused, "and my bladder feels like an overfilled water balloon."

"Then use the-"

"Oh, shut up." House snapped, glaring out of the corner of his eye as he crossed his arms in front of his chest like a sulking child.

"Just making a suggestion." Wilson muttered under his breath.

House expanded his chest then exhaled slowly, air escaping through his nose in a light hiss. The morphine was barely holding the edge over the torturous pain radiating up from his recently manhandled limb. He was about to ask Wilson for a morphine boost when nature forced him to change back to the original subject.

"Gimme." House waggled his fingers toward the empty urinal sitting on the stainless steel tray.

"I thought you-" Wilson started as he reached for the clear plastic container.

"Changed my mind." He craned his neck, looked behind him and then scanned the rest of the busy ward quickly. "I'd like to have at least some part of me comfortable." He reached for the urinal and slipped it under the thin blanket. "Stand over here," he demanded, motioning with his eyes toward his right hip. "You're my offensive line. Guard me." He reached under the covers with his right hand and situated himself as stealthily as possible without attracting any extra attention.

"Glad I could fill your needs as a curtain." Wilson retorted as he positioned himself between the right side of the bed and the rest of the open room, casually placing his hands in the front pocket of his still partially dust covered sweatshirt.

After a few moments, Wilson turned back. "What's taking so long?"

"Stage fright, okay?" House replied with a bit of irritation in his voice. "Gimme a sec."

"Ahhhhh." House let out a sigh as the sound of liquid hitting plastic was heard from under the blanket. "The simple things in life."

"So, what did you do to yourself this time?" A booming voice resonated from behind his right shoulder, interrupting the steady stream. Didn't Masterson know it took a certain concentration to urinate in public? House's eyes fell on the six foot plus ex lineman dressed in casual clothes; a dark green polo that looked to be a size too small for his massive arms and khaki pants that clung to his muscular thighs as if they were painted on. Under his arm was a large envelope with the words "X-rays" stamped in red across the front.

"You have impeccable timing, you know that?"

"Yeah, I can see that." Dr. Masterson retorted, looking down at the lump under the blanket. "I love it when people share their bodily functions with me."

House finished and pulled the half full urinal out from under the blanket and handed it abruptly to Wilson who looked like he was given a stick of dynamite to hold. He quickly handed it off to a passing nurse.

"And why does everyone assume I did this to myself?" House asked angrily.

"Because it usually ends up being your fault in some odd, twisted way," the doctor explained.

House ignored the man's comment and eyed his clothes suspiciously. "Let me guess. You were either out on a hot date with your wife who likes to dress you in clothes with little animals on them, or you actually like looking like an outdated yuppie from the eighties. Either way, it's just wrong." House stated nonchalantly as his hands continued to move under the blankets, rearranging himself back in his boxer-briefs. "Little alligators went out with parachute pants."

"Yeah, and you've always been the model of current fashion, I forgot."

"Hey, this isn't about me."

"Actually, it is," he said, holding up the manila envelope containing the films and waving them like a fan. He set them on the end of the bed and looked down at House's splinted leg. "Looks like I get to play," he continued, reaching down to pull the covers up from the foot of the bed. "Let's have a look."

He reached down and picked up House's left leg, releasing the black straps holding the splint in place. House grimaced as Masterson unwrapped his leg and removed the splint, gently sliding it from beneath his calf and heel. The specialist eyed the swollen leg and foot extensively, craning his neck to examine it from all angles. He whistled softly. "Man, the tibia's right there." gently placing his finger on a slight protrusion under the skin on the inside of House's leg.

House reluctantly glanced down and saw the swollen, discolored appendage. It looked like his leg was the same thickness from his calf down to his foot, leaving no evidence of an ankle existing beneath all of the swelling. His foot still had the odd outward bend, a good indication that things were not in their proper alignment.

"Another centimeter or so and it would've broken the skin." House knew what that would've meant. Compound fracture. Longer recovery time. Massive doses of IV antibiotics. Daily irrigation to make sure the bone didn't become infected. The possibility of developing osteomyelitis which could lead to so many other complications, sometimes even the need to... He really didn't want to think about that right now. The skin was intact. He had to stop thinking so much. Sometimes it sucked being a doctor and knowing the worst possible outcome.

Masterson's large hands gently poked and prodded around the injury, checking pulses and reactions to stimulation. House was relieved when his foot reacted to the stimuli, having been worried about the tingling and numbness he had been feeling. It hurt like hell when his foot jerked, but mentally it put him at ease. Masterson finished up his exam and started shuffling through the x-rays, pausing briefly on certain films, his eyes concentrating on the images.

"You gonna keep those private or do I get to see too since they are actually of MY leg?" House demanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

Masterson picked up the films and handed the first shot to House who held it up to the overhead fluorescent light.

"As you can see, you've got a complete fracture of both the tibia and fibula. I still can't figure out how it stayed closed. Can't get much closer without breaking the skin. You're lucky."

"Yeah, I'm a veritable rabbit's foot."

"I'm sure you've already figured out you'll need surgery."

Crap. He had hoped it was something simple that could easily be set. Maybe a little manipulation of his leg while dosed with a muscle relaxant. In. Out. Back home on his comfy couch. Instead he was looking at surgery...yet again. How many was that now? Whoever dealt the cards when he was born sure gave him a shitty hand. House idly wondered what the odds were for one person to suffer an infarction in his thigh muscle AND be hit by a runaway Monster Truck tire in one lifetime.

Ever since the infarction, all the bad luck in the world seemed to come his way. Everything that had happened in the last few years were all somehow related to his pain and lack of mobility in that damn leg of his; from failing relationships to his constant battle with the Vicodin and its side effects to getting shot in his own office. Then there was that whole 'leaving a rectal thermometer in the wrong asshole cop' thing.

"Aaaaand, there's also this. You broke your foot as well." Handing House another film. "See here?" He pointed towards the outside of House's foot on the film, "You've got a displaced fracture of the fifth metatarsal. Looks like something heavy fell on it."

"Really? How did you figure that out?" House replied sarcastically.

Masterson was used to House's sarcasm and continued, "Anyway, I'll probably have to go in there to set it. Also a hairline fracture of the talus," pointing toward the large round bone just under House's ankle, "that should heal on its own since you'll be off your feet anyway. Must've been quite an impact. What happened again?"

"Got hit by Gravedigger's tire." House stated nonchalantly. He waited for Masterson's smartass response.

"A Gravedigger...hmmm. Hanging out in cemeteries now?" He stated, cracking a smile.

"Ha." House wanted to jump off the bed and wipe that smirk off Masterson's face. Masterson knew damn well who Gravedigger was, having actually visited House's office while he was watching a taped Monster Truck event, the two doctors ending up in a discussion about the entertainment factor of watching giant trucks jump dirt hills and smash cars.

The orthopedic surgeon crossed his arms and focused on House once again. "Okay, two choices. We can either do this now or we can wait till morning. I can schedule for 7am. Up to you. Personally I'd rather wait until morning, especially since you ate..." He looked at the triage paperwork, " a slice of pizza, a couple hot dogs, a baked pretzel, a churro...what's a churro?... and a Mountain Dew. " He looked back up at House, dumbfounded. "You ate all that in the last 3 hours?"

"I'm a growing boy, and I didn't drink all the Mountain Dew." he replied, "and you'd know what a churro was if your wife actually let you go anywhere that didn't involve champagne and caviar." He held back a groan as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position which seemed quite impossible at the moment. He instinctively reached his left hand toward his leg, gently squeezing his knee.

Masterson took note of House's obvious discomfort and changed his tone.

"You know what? Changed my mind. I'm here. Let's go ahead and do this now."

"Gee, thanks. Wouldn't want my broken limb to keep you from your Backgammon game or anything."

Masterson headed towards the main desk in the ER, leaving House and Wilson back where they started- sitting on a bed pushed up against a drab green brick wall, waiting for something to happen.

House leaned back again and took a deep breath, continuing to keep his hand resting gently on the painful limb, squeezing occasionally above the knee. He caught a glimpse of Wilson watching him as he fought against the tight grip of pain engulfing his leg. He wished he could just sleep through the rest of this night that seemed to be lasting forever. What time was it anyway? Had to be near midnight if not later. He wanted to somehow get some sleep when he caught sight of Wilson out of the corner of his eye adjusting the IV pump. Moments later he felt the sharp edges of pain smooth from jagged rocky cliffs to gentle rolling hills, enough to let him relax his overtaxed muscles and try to forget the recent events and what that meant for his mobility. He didn't need to think about it now. He'd have plenty of time for that following surgery.

He felt himself starting to doze off when he blearily watched Wilson fall back in the chair again, resting his head on his hand, face scrunched up against his palm. As House's eyes slowly fell shut, the last image he recalled was Wilson grimacing and snatching his elbow off the edge of the chair, cradling it for a moment before switching to his other arm. _Hmmm...Gotta remember to ask him about that..._He tried to remind himself as the drugs pulled him under. _ And he still owes me fifty..._

The clattering of wheels and the feeling of movement woke him from his slumber, the shades of pink changing under his eyelids with each passing fluorescent light above him. He was being moved...hopefully to surgery. He had no sense of time and honestly didn't care at the moment. He let himself drift away once again...

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	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Yes, I finally finished this chapter. See what happens when you follow a story with a ridiculously slow writer? **

**This was a very difficult chapter for me because it focused mostly on Wilson's thoughts and had no House dialogue which I tend to enjoy writing. I'm not strong in the psyche department so I hope I did okay. **

**Thanks to all the wonderful reviews, story alerts and author alerts. I appreciate each and every one of you. Even those who are enjoying the story and not leaving comments. **

**House will be waking up and being his annoying self in the next chapter. **

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Chapter 6

Wilson stood on the observation deck above Operating Room #4, watching through the glass as Dr. Masterson put House's leg back together. His feet were starting to ache, the uncomfortable tightness running up from the arches of his feet into his calves. He lifted a foot off the floor and slowly rotated it, the tendons and ligaments snapping and popping with relief. It felt like he had been standing there for hours, but when he looked at the large clock hanging in the OR, it had only been about forty five minutes. 

He had stayed with House until they took him to surgery, more for his own moral support than for House. House had still been flying high from the increased dose of morphine and didn't seem to really care if Carmen Electra was undressing in front of him, his eyes struggling to stay open.

When the surgical assistants began wheeling House through the swinging double doors leading to the OR, Wilson took that opportunity to go talk to Cuddy and bring her up to date on her top diagnostician's condition. 

Knocking as he entered, he spotted her sitting at her desk, busily signing her name to a stack of official-looking letters. 

Wilson looked questioningly at her. "Not to sound rude or anything, but it's a Saturday night. Shouldn't you be home relaxing or maybe out on a date somewhere?" Cuddy seemed to basically live at the hospital. Wilson made a mental note to never take the job of Dean of Medicine if it was ever offered to him. He liked having a life outside the hospital, even if it mostly consisted of hanging out with House or learning Spanish from his Tivo'd _El Fuego Del Amor_.

Cuddy let out a slight chuckle. "In my dreams. Any suggestions on who I might take on this date? House pretty much scared off any possible prospects I might've had." She continued to talk, occasionally glancing up at the dust covered doctor sitting in the chair in front of her. "Seems this is about the only time I can ever get anything done without being bugged by half the staff here." She looked up from her paperwork and met Wilson's eyes with her own, her face softening as she changed the subject. "How is he?" 

He knew how much Cuddy really did care about House more than she would ever admit. "They just took him to surgery. He was fine when I left. Wasn't feeling much pain but he was pretty out of it, though." _Could've had something to do with the massive amounts of narcotics running through his system_, he thought. "He's got a tib-fib fracture along with a couple of minor fractures in his foot. He'll be a pain in the a.. well, MORE of a pain in the ass for the next few months."

Cuddy slightly smiled in response. House was going to be a handful.

He continued his update. "Masterson's doing the surgery." 

"How'd you manage that one?" Not waiting for a reply, she continued her own commentary, "well, doesn't matter how you got him here... that's good," she replied, filing the signed papers away into some official looking folder. "He's probably one of the few doctors here that can handle him, and House actually...dare I say... respects him. I'll probably be here for a few more hours so keep me up to date." She studied Wilson's disheveled appearance, "and maybe you should clean yourself up a bit. You're starting to look like him."

He glanced down at his dusty sweatshirt and jeans. Self-consciously he ran his hand through his mussed hair and brushed himself off a bit as he nodded slowly. He hadn't really noticed what a mess he really was. As he made the brushing motions with his hands, his elbow gave him a sharp reminder of what had happened a few hours earlier. He shook it off, hiding any discomfort from Cuddy as he turned toward the door as he gently opened and closed his right hand, gauging the amount of pain radiating from his tender elbow.

Before heading back up to the observation deck, he had made a detour toward the Oncology lounge for some real coffee. It was going to be a long night, might as well have a decent cup of coffee.

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Back in the viewing area, Wilson stretched out his left leg subconsciously, maybe feeling a bit of sympathy pains for his friend below.

From his perspective above the operating room, it was almost impossible to identify the patient below unless you were aware of the schedule. The only thing visible was a left leg lying on top of the blue background of surgical drapes, exposed like some kind of specimen in biology class. Several pairs of hands held the leg in place while Masterson worked his magic. He followed the leg up to House's face, barely recognizable under the blue surgical bonnet and endotracheal tube snaking out of his mouth. His eyes were closed, hiding the distinguishable vibrant blue irises from sight. 

Wilson's eyes returned to the three doctors hovering over the patient, each performing his assigned task. Masterson and an assistant were performing the surgery while the anesthesiologist focused on the monitors, keeping an eye on House's stats.

He continued to observe as he watched Masterson start breaking out the heavy duty instruments. He was beginning to look more like a steel worker on a car assembly line, aggressively pounding pieces of metal together instead of a surgeon skillfully repairing broken bones with exact precision. Power tools and mallets were being used to install the hardware into the fractured bones. Wilson instinctively cringed every time he watched the surgeon pound the rod deeper and deeper into the center of the broken tibia. Of course House remained totally oblivious to anything going on, his heart rate and respirations steady. 

His mind started pushing older memories to the surface, like bubbles rising from a sunken warship as he felt a sort of _Deja' Vu_ wash over him. How many times had he found himself in this position, sitting around, waiting for House to come out of surgery? He would anxiously pace, waiting to hear from the surgeon who had to remove a lodged bullet and sew up a severed jugular vein. Then having to wait days for House to wake up from the coma that followed the emergency surgery. Those few days seemed to last forever as he anxiously awaited the outcome from the Ketamine treatment, hoping his friend would emerge from the coma safe and pain free. 

His most vivid memory, the one he'd like to forget about but was reminded of every day, was the infarction and the aftermath. He had decided to leave the oncology conference early after receiving a call from a very distraught Stacy, catching an early flight home only to find out about the surgery that had already been performed by her request. The anxiety and fear he felt while waiting for his best friend to wake up had made him physically ill. His stomach churned as he recalled the moment he broke the news to House about the surgery and the large chunk of thigh muscle that had been removed from his leg. House had come so close to breaking down in front of Wilson, fighting back the tears that squeezed their way out of his pain filled eyes, slowly running down his cheeks and on to the pillow below. He would never forget seeing House so vulnerable. So alone. A man both broken in body and spirit, betrayed by the one person he had ever truly loved. 

Now here he was again, watching House undergo yet another procedure to repair his already scarred and damaged body. This time the sick feeling in his stomach seemed to stem more from the guilt plaguing him rather than actual worry. House would be fine. He knew this, yet somewhere deep down in the recesses of his mind, he felt responsible. The scenario kept running through his head like a song stuck on repeat, looping over and over again until it became embedded in your brain, causing you to hum the damn tune for the next week. The whole incident was gnawing at his insides. House held him responsible and, much to Wilson's dismay, maybe he was right. 

He snapped out of his thoughts as he caught a glimpse of dark blonde hair dangling out from under the surgical cap. Was that Chase? He leaned closer to the glass partition, narrowing his eyes to get a closer look, his nose almost plastered against the window. As if he sensed Wilson's presence, the Australian glanced up his direction and issued a slight nod in response. How ironic was it that a doctor who had just been fired by House not more than a month or so ago and was now working on his ex-boss, doing his job, acting like a professional. House was an idiot to let Chase go, but honestly the Intensivist seemed to be at home in the operating room as he watched the two men work together. Maybe this was where the young doctor really belonged. Chase continued to hold House's leg steady as Masterson inserted a few more screws into the fractured bone.

Wilson was still getting over the shock of seeing Chase work on House when he heard the quiet click of the door behind him. He caught the ghostly image of Cuddy reflected in the glass in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, hands grasping each other above the elbows in a self embrace. Turning his head, he acknowledged her presence with a slight nod and a tight smile. Her clothes were more casual than her usual low cut power suit during regular hours. She was wearing a simple turquoise blue V-neck cotton pullover with a pair of black pants. Funny how he hadn't noticed her attire on his initial visit to her office earlier, until he remembered she had been sitting behind her desk. 

They both stood in silence, watching the procedure below. Masterson was still pounding the metal rod into place, slowly driving it into the center of House's tibia centimeters at a time. Wilson and Cuddy winced in unison with each swing of the stainless steel hammer. 

Finally, Cuddy turned her head toward Wilson. "So, tell me again what happened?" She asked, looking a bit confused.

Kicking into overdrive, Wilson started his narrative of the events. "House had these infield tickets for the Monster Truck Jam. Puts you right next to the track." Cuddy stared blankly back at him, as if he was speaking a foreign language.

"You know what Monster Trucks are?" Cuddy shook her head slightly.

"They're these huge trucks with...they're like giant 4X4's. They race each other on dirt tracks." Wilson saw the incomprehension on Cuddy's face, then suddenly realization. 

"Oh, yeah. I know what they are. I've seen the commercials with the really loud announcer yelling and echoing..."

He nodded his head and continued. "Yeah, well anyway...we were watching a race when one of the wheels broke loose from Gravedigger...that's his favorite truck by the way... anyway... it all happened so fast. I saw the wheel...I'm not talking car tires, I'm talking about a tire around six feet high, five feet wide, probably moving about thirty or forty miles per hour." God, he sounded like he was on speed or something. His words seem to be falling over each other, fighting their way out of his mouth.

Wilson continued to ramble. "We were only about twenty feet from the track. I saw it first. Tried to push House out of the way and I jumped the other way. He fell because of that damn leg of his and I guess the tire clipped him." Wilson acknowledged the surgery below. "Which, of course, is why I'm standing here with you." He waited for Cuddy's response to Wilson's involvement but it never came.

"How much coffee have you had tonight?" was all she asked.

"Apparently more than enough." He admitted. He did feel a bit jittery all of a sudden. Maybe it was the combination of the antidepressants and the two large coffees coursing through his system. 

"I swear he's got the worst luck in the world." Cuddy added, staring back down at the action below. "Leave it to House to win the award for most bizarre things to happen to a person." She must've missed the part about him physically pushing House. 

"Tell me about it." Wilson responded. 

"You know he's gonna need help." She stated matter-of-factly.

He nodded his head slightly in reply, his hands still stuffed in the front pockets of his sweatshirt.

"And you know he's going to refuse it, right?" She added.

Another nod. _No kidding, _he thought. House would rather crawl across the parking lot on his hands and knees than ask for any kind of assistance. The man was the ultimate example of stubbornness. He remembered when House was recovering from the infarction: he was barely able to get around on his own yet refused any offer of help from him. House was like a wounded dog, snapping at the hands trying to help him.

"Well, he's gonna need help whether he likes it or not. Figured I'd have plenty of time to bring it up after the surgery. Less chance of him trying to make an escape when he's drugged and incapacitated." He answered. "That gives me a day or so, right?" He figured House would have to be monitored for at least 24 hours before being discharged. 

"There's no way he'd let his parents help him out." Cuddy stated.

"God, no." That was the last thing House would need. Wilson could picture it in his mind. House's mom or dad helping him to the toilet. No way. House would sooner stay in the rehab wing at the hospital before succumbing to his mom's overly caring personality and his dad's "take it like a man" attitude.

Cuddy nodded, lips tight in a line. 

"Maybe we should just keep him sedated for the next eight weeks or so." She halfheartedly joked. "It'd be much easier on all of us."

Wilson chuckled slightly, trying to make light of the situation. "Maybe I can get him a bed next to the coma patient. That's where he spends most of his time anyway." 

The corner of Cuddy's mouth turned up slightly in a polite smile. She looked down again at the man on the operating table, oblivious to the conversation taking place a few feet above him. 

"You know you're the only one he'd let anywhere near him." She said. "He'll need help whether he likes it or not." A slight pause. "It's up to you if you want that job...again. God knows I wouldn't." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

Wilson looked down at the frayed ends of the strings hanging loosely from the hood of his sweatshirt and began twisting them with his fingers, sending an occasional twinge to his elbow. He'd helped House out before, under worse circumstances when House recovered from the infarction, but that didn't mean House would be willing to accept the intrusion on his private life once again. "I don't mind helping him out, I just don't think he'd want me there." 

"Well, that's tough. He's going to have to deal with it." Cuddy said in her best administrator voice.

"Yeah, and we both know how well he deals with things," came the sarcastic reply.

They both turned their attention back to the still figure on the operating table, both 

trying to figure out what it was that made them care so much for this man that seemed to be more trouble than he was worth.

His admission of guilt seemed to catch in his throat as he tried to usher the words out of his mouth with an exhale. "This was my fault." Wilson sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping.

"What was? What do you mean?" Cuddy turned to look at the oncologist who had suddenly taken interest in his own shoes.

"I saw the tire...I reacted...he slipped..." he looked up at the bright overhead lights in the OR, " why didn't I just pull him towards me?" How many times was he going to run this through his head? Why did he have to have such a deep sense of responsibility when it came to protecting his friend? He thought he'd feel better by admitting his responsibility for House's injuries, but it still hung over him like the proverbial cloud, threatening to drown him with unrelenting guilt.

"Wait. You're not seriously blaming yourself for what happened, are you?" She placed her hands on her hips as she turned to face him eye to eye. Then realization seemed to dawn on her. "He said something to you, didn't he?"

Wilson's eyebrow raised as he gave her a look that said 'What do you think?'

"Of course he did. He's House." She answered as she glanced back down at the surgery below. Wilson took the pause to glance at the monitor positioned to his right, giving him a close-up shot of the surgery. Masterson was placing a few screws in the fractured bone in House's foot, the skin folded back to allow access. Chase was meticulously suturing the incision below House's knee that was needed for access to place the titanium rod. He took his eyes off the monitor and focused on his shoes once again.

"You know it wasn't your fault. Don't let him manipulate you like that." She reassured him, grabbing his forearm gently. "What do you think would've happened if you hadn't done what you did?"

He shrugged half heartedly, avoiding direct eye contact with his boss. 

"I'll tell you. He probably would've been severely injured or maybe even killed. Instead, he'll just have to deal with a few miserable weeks stuck in a wheelchair, harassing any and everyone within a square mile." 

Wilson nodded again in total agreement. 

"Remember that bet a few months back? When he stayed in that wheelchair for a week just for a damned parking space?" Cuddy recalled.

Wilson remembered the bet and how he had told House that he was making a fool of himself. But House had been hard nosed and demanded his parking space back, willing to stay in that chair for a week straight to regain his prized spot, only to lose the bet with Cuddy by waltzing into an OR and feeling up some poor kid's small intestine. Cuddy still gave him his space back. Maybe in some strange way she respected that strong willed determination and stubbornness of his.

"I look at this almost as Karma coming back to bite him in the ass." She stated rather coldly.

"You don't think he deserves-" 

"I'm not saying that. He's had enough bad luck thrown his direction. God forbid he have any more. It's just ironic how this happened so close after pulling that little stunt with Dr. Whitner." 

It was moments like those when Wilson realized just how stubborn and determined House could be. He would stop at nothing to get what he thought he rightfully deserved. 

"Yeah, and maybe it had a little to do with me knocking him down in front of an eight hundred pound projectile." He added with a bit of self- deprecation in his voice.

"Would you stop beating yourself up over this? You did the right thing. It's called being a good friend." She indicated with her thumb toward the operating table where his friend was currently unconscious and completely unaware of the current discussion. "He may never say it, but I'll say it for him. Thank you."

"For what?" 

"For saving his life, even if he is an ass and doesn't appreciate someone else's regard for his own safety." 

He looked over at her, eyebrows furrowing. Why did he still have this incredible amount of guilt still built up inside him?

"Are you familiar with The Good Samaritan Act?"

"Of course." He recalled the law that protected people who were willing to help save someone's life, especially when CPR was performed.

"Think about it. I know it sounds dramatic, but who knows what would've happened if you didn't do what you did." 

She placed her other hand under his elbow and gave a grateful squeeze, causing Wilson to flinch and pull his arm away a bit. She looked up to see him grimace as he grabbed cradled his elbow in his left hand.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just fell on it a bit hard." He noted her concerned stare. "It's fine, really. Just a little sore." He said, gently touching the tender area around his elbow, gauging his own pain level as he felt a sharp twinge at the tip of the bone. _Must've bruised it pretty good when I landed._

Cuddy kicked into doctor mode. "If it's still bothering you in a few days, get someone to take a look at it."

Wilson started to interject.

"No arguments." She ordered, gaining a slight nod in return. 

He lowered his arms and tucked his hands back into the protective pockets of his sweatshirt. 

"And I thought you were going to clean yourself up?" She questioned in a motherly tone.

"I was going...but..." 

"I get it. Maybe while he's in recovery you can grab something from your office." 

She let a smile escape as she watched Chase continue to close up his ex-boss's leg. "What do you think he'd say if he knew Chase was working on him?"

"Oh, I think he'd be worried about what kind of loose items Chase would intentionally try to leave inside of him. Maybe a sponge or an extra screw, some loose change. Maybe the whole drill." He returned the smile. "Anyway, he'll find out when he reads the surgical report." 

"I've got to go finish the ton of paperwork still sitting on my desk. Never seems to go away. Give me a call when he's out of recovery and settled in a room."

"He'll be fine." He replied. "I'll call you in the morning. Let you sleep in." 

"You need to get some sleep too. Once he's awake, you'll have your hands full. You know what a pain in the ass he'll be."

"Yeah. I know. Hopefully, they'll keep him sedated for a while." Wilson answered, "If not, maybe I'll do the job myself if he gets out of hand." 

She gave his right shoulder a little squeeze. "And I'm serious about that arm. If it still bothers you in a day or so, go get it checked."

He rolled his eyes, "I will, I will." He sounded like a whiny teenager promising to be home before midnight. _House must be rubbing off on me_, he thought.

"Okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow." She turned and walked out of the small grey room. For a moment Wilson was taken aback by the absence of clacking heels until he had noticed the pair of black flats slipping out the door. 

He turned his attention back to the surgery below. Chase was stapling the incisions on the side of House's leg where the screws had been inserted while Masterson continued to work on the broken foot. Wilson turned and looked at the TV monitor on the wall again, getting the surgeon's point of view. He could see part of the bone on the outside of House's foot that had now been set, a small plate no larger than an inch long was anchored over the fracture site, slightly shrouded in a thin film of blood. 

Masterson turned and gave Wilson the thumbs-up signal, declaring the surgery a success.

Wilson sighed with relief, his shoulders sagging as he nodded in response, releasing the tension he didn't realize he'd been holding in since the start of the procedure. 

The surgical sites were wrapped in gauze then the repaired leg was placed in a hard plastic splint that ran from mid thigh all the way to House's toes. Masterson then wrapped a large elastic bandage tightly around the limb as Chase held the leg firmly in place, setting it back down gently when the work was complete.

Wilson took this as a sign to head down to recovery. He moved with a bit of reluctancy, unsure of what he was about to face. He turned and headed out of the observation room toward the recovery area.

----------------------------------------


	7. Chapter 7

Monster Truck Mayhem: Chapter 7

A/N: So sorry for the long delay. Funny how I keep saying that. Real life just makes it so difficult to be able to commit a good chunk of time to writing. Anyway... Hope you're still interested and I hope to be updating quicker from now on. I have a complete outline for the entire story now and am working diligently on it daily. Thanks for all of your kind comments and enjoy!

Monster Truck Mayhem: Chapter 7

Slowly, the fog engulfing his drugged brain began to lift, his senses once again able to send signals through the thinning haze of anesthetic.

He heard voices. Distant. Muffled. As if they were conversing at the end of a mile-long hallway, but they were there. Women talking softly in that overly kind, patronizing tone he loathed, like a mother gently waking her napping toddler. The sounds of monitors beeping and chirping in the background, accompanied by the rhythmic hissing of the blood pressure cuff filling with air then slowly releasing, the tightness around his arm easing in unison.

The slight touch of cool plastic tubing against his cheeks and the dryness in his nostrils indicated oxygen being force-fed into his lungs through a nasal cannula.

His eyelids had no intentions of responding to his fuzzy brain's commands at the moment, so he stuck with the senses that seemed to be working.

"Dr. House, are you with us?" That coddling voice again. Was that his name? The only words he was able to comprehend were the first two. The rest sounded like she was speaking into a metal garbage can from across the room, words echoing and bouncing around inside his head.

"Come on, Dr. House. Time to wake up. Your surgery's over." _Surgery? ..._He forced himself to focus. _Oh yeah._ "Dr. Masterson will talk to you after you're settled in your room." Settle. Right. It was impossible to ever be settled when stuck in the hospital.

Hospital stays always involved being awakened every two hours whether you liked it or not, to be poked, prodded and just plain annoyed. The nurse would show up in the middle of the night to check vitals along with your fluid input, fluid output, overall comfort level and simply just to make sure you never had a chance to get any sleep. All he wanted to do was enjoy the remains of his drug induced nap.

A gentle rub on his shoulder startled him from his dreamlike state, involuntarily jerking from the touch. His eyes snapped open for a brief moment before falling closed a split second later. He tried to utter his disapproval of being disturbed and wanted to tell her to leave him the hell alone, but all that came out was a discernible "Nnnngh," as he turned his head and drifted back into his slumber.

A while later--he had no clue how long it had been—the unique sounds of the recovery room flooded back into his ears, this time more crisp and clear. His eyelids slowly fluttered open, instantly regretting it. Blinding overhead lights filled his vision as they began to oscillate above him, warping and swaying like something out of a Pink Floyd video.

Immediately he closed his eyes and turned his head away from the offensive lights, fighting off the urge to vomit. Last thing he wanted right now was for Nurse Nightingale to have to clean up any of his bodily fluids.

A futile attempt at moving his limbs yielded a limp hand clumsily thrown over his eyes, wincing as his fingers brushed against the line of sutures on his forehead._ Ow. Forgot about that. _Gently, he slid his forearm further down over his eyes as he rode out the vertigo.

Images from recent events started to emerge out of the murkiness of his mind. Pictures and moments flashed in front of his closed eyes like a poorly edited slideshow. Monster Trucks, ER, tire, leg, surgery...

A pang of fear ran through him as he realized he couldn't feel anything below his waist. No pain. Nothing. It was unnerving to say the least. After a failed attempt at wiggling his toes, he clumsily reached his left hand down and came up against a bulky brace encircling his leg up to the middle of his thigh.

Okay, his leg was still there but his usually troubled right leg seemed to be awfully tame at the moment too. His heart jumped in response, the heart-rate monitor beeps rising in unison.

He made an uncoordinated attempt to grab his right leg, feeling the rounded crest normal healthy tissue of his upper quad. His fingers walked down his thigh, sliding down the edge of the crater that was the remains of his quadriceps. He probed gently, feeling the tight, scarred flesh under his fingertips, but his leg didn't seem to be registering his touch. Maybe it was still the effects of the anesthesia. Maybe he had been given some kind of nerve block. There had to be a logical medical explanation. It wasn't time to panic...yet. He threw his right arm back over his closed eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning.

"How are you feeling?" The damn nurse again with that saccharine-sweet voice.

He peeked an eye out from under his elbow, trying to give her his best scowl but it came out more as a blank, dopey stare. Whatever it was, it didn't convince the nurse to go away and let him return to the world at his own pace.

"Fine...goway..." he croaked out. He would've loved to add a bit more commentary, but couldn't summon the strength yet.

"Sorry, Dr. House. You're going to have to put up with me for a little while longer. You know the rules."

Another witty retort sat on the tip of his tongue but all that emerged was a weak cough as his tongue tried to unglue itself from the roof of his mouth.

Ice chips were suddenly thrust in front of his nose. He opened his mouth grudgingly and accepted the cool relief, letting the ice melt over his parched tongue and lips, the cool water sliding down his raw throat.

The room seemed to stop spinning and was now reduced to a simple swaying motion, as if he was out at sea floating adrift a makeshift raft in twenty-foot waves.

Lifting his arm away from his face, he lowered his eyes towards the foot of the bed and started to take inventory. The sight of his left toes peeking out from under the bandages and brace were a welcome sight, even if those toes were turning a lovely shade of green and purple.

A sense of relief washed over him when he made out the contour of his right leg under the pale green blanket, the toes of his right foot creating a little triangular tent at the other end of the bed. All limbs present and accounted for. Always a good sign after waking up from anesthesia. The numbness he felt weighed a bit in the back of his mind, but he knew it had to be something temporary...at least he hoped.

With his major concerns resolved, he closed his eyes and relaxed back into the pillow, struggling to stay awake. He had forgotten how long it took to shake off the effects of a general anesthetic. Giving up the fight, he let the heavy blanket of anesthesia once again cover him as he drifted off, oblivious to the activity around him.

He had meant to stay awake while waiting for House to come out of recovery, wanting to be there when House woke up, but he found himself dozing off on one of the cushy couches in the lounge meant to keep family members and loved ones comfortable while they waited for news about their significant other's surgery. Lucky for him, it was the middle of the night and the room was basically empty, giving him ample space to stretch out his tired and sore body anywhere he liked. Before he knew it, he was down for the count, the stresses of the previous day taking its toll.

A shake of his gym-shoe-clad foot shook him out of his catnap as he looked up to see a large muscular arm attached to a pair of blue scrubs. He shoved himself slowly into a sitting position to properly greet the orthopedic surgeon.

Masterson briefly explained the surgery and House's prospective recovery and rehab, informing Wilson that he was going to meet with House first thing in the morning, wanting to let the patient get some needed rest first. Wilson lifted himself slowly off the maroon cushions with a groan and made his way towards House's room.

When he arrived in room 316, House was already there, snoring contently. Wilson snuck in quietly and deposited himself in the meager excuse for a chair and stared poignantly at his dozing friend. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he took in the sight of the braced leg, slightly bent at the knee and resting on a pillow. A light green blanket was pulled up to House's chest, his hands resting comfortably on his stomach and the head of the bed slightly raised. House looked...relaxed, even with the angry row of black stitches angling down his forehead. It didn't take away from the softened features on his friend's face, how the lines of pain at the corners of his eyes seemed to have disappeared for now.

Content with House's condition, he sank back into the chair and had let himself drift off again.

--

The distant sound of metal crashing to the floor startled him awake, his body jerking in response. Gaining his bearings, Wilson turned and glanced towards House, who was staring sleepily back at him from the hospital bed a few feet away.

Wilson let out a strained "Heeey" as he arched his back, his face contorting with the release of an exaggerated yawn. His whole body ached from the awkward position he was forced to hold in order to keep from sliding out of the chair and onto the floor.

"Whervyoubeen..?" House's words slurred together as he stared back at him with those soul-searching eyes. Even in a drug induced haze, those ice-blue orbs of House's could still send shivers up and down his spine.

"Good morning to you, too." It felt like he'd been asleep for five minutes, but the daylight filling the room told him otherwise. So, he must have gotten at least a few hours of sleep since dragging himself off the couch in the visitor's lounge to this ridiculously uncomfortable hard plastic chair next to House's bedside.

The sun was shining through the east facing window, the vertical blinds slicing the light into thin yellow lines across the entire room like the bars of a jail cell. House looked like a prisoner trapped in his own hospital bed. How ironic, Wilson thought.

"Didn't see you...after surgery." House continued, the words broken as he sighed deeply. He still looked a little woozy and pale and seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes open.

"What? Wait. Did you actually MISS me?" Wilson stated with mock surprise, grabbing his chest in shock.

"No." He watched as House tried to shift his body to a more comfortable position, wincing in the process. "Thought you might've... been smart and gone back to your hotel room. But since you're still in the same clothes as last night...I'm guessing you're not as smart as I thought."

"Well, actually, I thought I'd go out and catch a movie." Wilson replied sarcastically.

House stared blankly as Wilson continued, "Then I hung out at Starbucks for a while. Had a Grande Latte while I played on the internet."

"What'd ya see?"

"Do you really think I'd do that?" Wilson questioned loudly, feeling slightly hurt by House thinking he'd actually abandon him. "I was standing and pacing in the observation deck for hours, watching them put you back together again."

"Were all the king's horses and all the king's men there too?" House questioned mockingly, then sighing deeply he continued, "I'm not Humpty Dumpty."

'Well, you could've fooled me," Wilson replied, crossing his arms in front of him as he thought back to all of the times he'd witnessed House in surgery or lying in a hospital bed recovering from some affliction or injury.

"I would've gone to the movies," House mumbled as he turned to reach for the Styrofoam cup sitting on the tray. A struggle ensued between House's lower and upper body, legs refusing to cooperate with his upper half.

"Of course _you_ would have." He subtly stretched his foot out to push the cart a bit closer to House's outstretched arm, receiving a threatening glare in return.

He leaned back in his chair again, refusing to let his inner need to enable swallow him whole.

"Okay, if you won't go back to your hotel, at least go change. You look like crap," House added, his voice rough from the trach tube and sleep.

"Yeah, and you look like a breath of fresh air," he retorted as he took in House's pale appearance and the numerous tubes and wires attached to his friend.

"I'm fine," House croaked, finally reaching the cup with his fingertips and tilted it toward his mouth, crunching the small chunks of ice. "Nothing you could've done anyways, so why waste your time staring at me while I was unconscious? It's not like I'd known you were there. Kind of pointless, don't you think?"

"Well, it is usually customary for a friend or loved one to actually be concerned about someone who's in surgery, and they may even feel the need to be nearby." Wilson explained, "I know this concept is foreign to you."

"It all goes back to the 'let's see how close I can get to show you how much I care' hypothesis." House replied, "I'm surprised you weren't in the OR, leaning over Masterson's shoulder during the whole thing."

House knew him too well. Wilson _would_ have been in the OR if he felt he could've been some kind of assistance at all, but he knew he'd just be in the way. Besides, House probably would have found some way to tease him to no end about his incessant need to control every aspect of House's life. "Excuse me for caring," he stated, shifting positions in the oddly contoured chair. He could have sworn those chairs were made for someone about four feet tall with some kind of odd curvature of the spine.

"Well, if you're not going anywhere, make yourself useful and grab my chart," House demanded, sticking his free hand out as he shook a few more ice chips into his mouth, letting them melt on his tongue.

"Since you asked so nicely..." He started to push himself up off the armrests when his elbow sent a hot, searing pain down his forearm, causing him to hitch his breath momentarily as he released the pressure off his elbow.

He chanced a quick glance at House who was eyeing him suspiciously with that calculating gaze he seemed to possess when trying to tackle a puzzle. Maybe if he just shook it off. Act like it was nothing.

"Hit my funny bone." He answered quickly as he flexed his hand a few times, casually striding over to the bin on the wall and grabbing the chart with his left hand. He could feel House's eyes piercing his back, gauging his every move.

"Masterson did an amazing job," Wilson stated, trying to change the subject as he nonchalantly flipped the chart onto House's chest.

"Since when did you get your specialty in orthopedics? House questioned sardonically, "I know I wasn't out _that _long."

"Well, I talked to Chase right after the surgery and he said that Masterso-"

"Wait. Are you telling me Chase was in on the surgery?" he asked as he started to flip through the notes, his brows furrowing with concentration.

"Yeah, and he was totally impressed with Masterson's work."

"_Chase _said it was good work? Well, then it must be true," came the sarcastic reply. Wilson noticed House straining to focus on the small handwriting as House continued. "Since when has Chase become the go-to guy when it comes to judging surgery techniques?"

"Since you fired him and he became part of the surgical team down here. He's good, not that you'd notice."

"Do you mean professionally or se-" House cut short his reply as his eyes continued to scan the contents. "Ahhh, that explains it. Thought so..." He muttered under his breath, sounding a bit relieved.

"What?"

"Nothing." House replied as Wilson watched him squeeze his right thigh experimentally and run his hand under the sheet as if feeling around for something he lost. Wilson assumed House was taking simple inventory, determining what had been done and where. He could see the hand moving down the inside of his right leg, following what he assumed to be the tubing taped to the inside of his thigh.

As House continued to filter through his file with his free hand, his eyes suddenly grew wide in surprise, then turned to anger. "_Chase_ cathed me? House started, staring at the scribbled words on the page. "Why didn't a nurse or an..." House sounded a bit pissed at first, but then he stopped short and the corner of his lip crept up into a sly grin. "Think he was impressed?"

"With what?" He had started to tune out House's rambling, his eyes glued to the damaged leg in front of him. His mind started running the scene over and over again as as it somehow tried to process some other outcome, some solution other than having his friend end up in a hospital bed with a leg in pieces. This was something that wasn't going to go away easily. It was going to nag him for who knew how long, the incessant guilt grinding away at his conscience. Why did he let things bother him so much? Why couldn't he just sweep his guilt to the curb and leave it for the trash collectors? Sometimes he envied House and his ability to not give a crap. It would make his life so much easier.

"Earth to Wilson." He looked up to meet House's gaze instantly. Quickly averting his eyes, he focused on the bedrail in front of him. "What?"

"Hey, I'm talking about penis envy here and you're somewhere out in left field. You can't let a good penis joke go to waste like that."

"God forbid. There are never enough penis jokes in the world."

House continued his speculations on Chase's manly bits. "He'll probably go home to Cameron tonight and feel a bit... inferior...if you know what I mean." House raised his eyebrows a bit and flinched, gently touching the gash on his forehead. The last comment snapped Wilson out of his rumination and he stared back at House.

"You're unreal," he stated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Here's another thought: he might've been mature and professional about the whole thing and not thought anything of it and did his job, unlike someone else I know."

House aimed his comments to the pages in front of him, oblivious to Wilson's response, or he just didn't care as he kept rambling on about the netherlands. "Probably a good thing Cameron didn't cath me. She'd never leave me alone. Could you imagine?" He shuddered with those words, making Wilson smile a bit at the floor, keeping his reaction hidden from House.

"What can I say, you're just so irresistible," Wilson deadpanned.

"Am I interrupting something?" a familiar deep voice chimed in.

They both turned to see Masterson strolling into the room, freshly showered and wearing the same green polo and khaki pants from the night before.

"Oh, the usual discussion about penis sizes."

Masterson shook his head. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

"You'd be disappointed if I did." House answered, setting his chart on his lap and stretching his upper body a bit.

"How's it feeling?" Masterson asked, nodding toward the immobilized limb elevated on pillows.

"Depends on the moment, but right now it's got a large plastic tube shoved inside of it, so not..." House answered seriously, as the other two doctors' eyes rolled to the ceiling in unison. "Oh! You mean the leg. My bad." He reached for the manila folder and pulled out some X-rays that must have been taken following the surgery.

House's eyes narrowed as they focused on the film. "Damn. I've got more hardware in me than Home Depot."

"Would you have preferred me to use some Super Glue or duct tape instead?" Masterson retorted.

"You know, duct tape does have over ten thousand uses. I could make you a nice wallet. The directions are online. I'm sure I could find the time what with me being unable to walk now."

"I would like to get home some time today and enjoy my only day off, so how about answering my question?" He was growing tired of House's little deflection game.

"It's fine." The standard answer Masterson probably had heard a thousand times from House.

"Spinal block, huh? House questioned, looking up at Masterson for confirmation. "Could've warned me. A little freaky to wake up and not feel anything below the waist, especially with my bad luck waking up from anesthesia."

So that's what House was concerned about. Wilson thought he saw a flash of concern on House's face earlier. Of course, House wouldn't open his mouth and actually _say _something like "Hey, I can't really feel my legs."

"Thought I'd give you a few hours of comfort following the surgery. Guess I was wrong. I'll try not to be so considerate next time."

Masterson went on, explaining what he'd done and his future prognosis. The surgery went well and House would likely regain full use of his left leg, barring any complications. Wilson had sighed with relief at the mention of complete recovery. Something in the back of his head kept nagging at him, picturing House stuck in a wheelchair permanently because of one split-second decision he had made and knowing he would have to live with that realization for the rest of hislife.

Masterson continued to explain about rehab; how it would be slow and had to be altered due to House's compromised right leg. "Oh, and I have plans for that right leg of yours, too," he added.

Wilson turned to see House's scowl directed toward Masterson as he continued discussing the prognosis. "You need to try to get as much strength in that right leg as possible. If you can strengthen the surrounding muscles a bit more, maybe learn how to maneuver it with your hamstrings and gluts, it'll make everything a bit easier if you can move that leg under its own power."

"You know that won't work. First of all, I'll be screaming in pain. Secondly...I'll be screaming in pain."

"We'll see what we can do." Masterson wasn't going to give in that easily.

The plan was for the full leg splint to remain in place until the incisions had healed adequately and the sutures and staples were removed. If everything looked good, then he'd be placed in a cast below the knee. House continued scowling, doing his best to intimidate, but it never worked as well when he was flat on his back in a hospital bed.

"Of course, no weight bearing for at least two to three weeks which means...well... I'm sure you've figured out that you'll have to be in a wheelchair because there is no way that right leg of yours is going to support you." If anything, Masterson was straight and to the point. "Then we'll see about getting you on your feet after that."

"Wow, I'm so glad you're here to state the obvious." House was starting to look a bit drained, the color of his face paling under the darker stubble. He had started blinking his eyes in an effort to stay focused but seemed to be losing the battle with his heavy eyelids. He sighed deeply, "I've dealt with wheelchairs before. I think I can handle a few weeks rolling around."

"Just remember, you had one good leg to support you last time. Now all you've got is your upper body strength to depend on." He paused, "This isn't going to be easy. Just be aware of that. You'll have some frustrating mom-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've heard this speech before. I think it was about seven years ago or so. I get it. It's gonna suck. I'll get through it."

"Alright. Well, get some sleep. That nerve block will probably last you another few hours and allow you to rest a bit." He turned to Wilson, "James, call me if anything comes up or seems unusual...well, more unusual for him."

"Thanks, Chris."

"'Chris and James?' How cute. You guys are on a first name basis." He let out a drawn out yawn. "Well, sorry to interrupt your little social get-together, but I'd like to get some sleep, so if you two don't mind." He turned his head away from the two men standing on his right and feigned sleep.

Wilson joined Dr. Masterson in the hall for a few minutes. He needed to discuss House's possible need for assistance at his home.

"Well, we both know how stubborn he is, but honestly, I think he's gonna need some help. Give him a chance. Let him try to do things for himself first. He's probably going to need help initially with transferring in and out of the chair. It's not only the loss of his strength and use of his legs; it's a balance issue. It's going to be difficult for him to allow you to help but he really won't have a choice, at least until he's got the hard cast below the knee. That'll give him a bit more maneuverability."

Wilson nodded in response.

"He's probably going to be out for a while. Go home, change. Grab a nap yourself. He's fine and he'll still be fine when you get back."

Wilson looked at the floor for a moment before raising his eyes to the six foot plus doctor. "You didn't have to come out here in the middle of the night, especially for someone like him." He threw a thumb in the direction of House's room. "If he never says it, I'll say it for him. Thanks." As he offered his right hand out and the other doctor took a firm grip and shook it, a sharp pang shot from his elbow, radiating up and down his arm. Reflexively, he pulled away, cradling his tender elbow in his hand. His mouth closed in a tight line when he saw Masterson staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"It's nothing. Landed on it at the Monster Truck...at the event last night. I think it's just bruised." Deep down, he feared it was more than just a simple bruise. The slightest touch sent him through the roof and the simple gesture of shaking someone's hand was even painful. Great. Right now was not really the time to have to be dealing with his own issues, especially if he ended up having to help out House for a while. The thought of trying to lift his uncooperative, almost two-hundred-pound friend on his own sent sympathy pains up and down his right arm.

Masterson eyed him skeptically. "Okay. Well, you know where I am. I'll want to see him again on Tuesday, see how everything's healing. The instructions will be with his discharge papers."

"I'm guessing tomorrow some time?" Wilson assumed.

"Looks like it. As long as nothing unforeseen happens."

"Thanks. I'm going home for a while. Get out of these filthy clothes. Take a shower. Try desperately to get some kind of sleep."

"I'll probably see you Tuesday, then." Even Masterson seemed to assume Wilson would take care of House. Honestly, he couldn't think of anyone else who'd be willing, let alone who House would even let through his front door, not that House would be able to do anything about it.

Masterson turned and headed down the almost deserted hallway as Wilson chanced another peek inside House's room. A gentle snore escaped from the bed and the beeping of the monitors was reassuring in its steady rhythm. He turned and headed for the exit before his own conscience got the better of him.

A/N: Thanks for being so patient with me. I have a solid outline for the rest of this story which will probably run about fifteen chapters I'm guessing. Hope you'll stick around!

Next chapter should be up quicker and should be fun! Look for appearances by Cuddy and Kutner and a few others.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N I've been concentrating mainly on this story. I feel I'm on a bit of a roll and don't want to lose my thought process here. I'll continue Wired as soon as I get the majority of this story complete.

Thanks so much for your kind reviews. They really do help inspire me to keep going. Believe me, there are times I'm ready to chuck it all out the window.

A big thanks to Magie05 who keeps me from chucking it all and is a fantastic writer herself!

--

CHAPTER 8-

"Keep it up and you won't be discharged until you're able to walk out those doors on your own!" Cuddy warned in her best authoritative voice, her arms folded in front of her as she stared at the pain-in-the-ass in the hospital bed. This argument had been going on long enough, and she wasn't about to back down and let him win...again. She picked and chose her battles with the stubborn idiot, usually giving in to end his tiresome escapades, but not this time.

House refused to acknowledge her, not surprisingly, and opted for the 'petulant child' imitation: arms crossed, pouting lip, staring at the remains of his lunch. She took a deep breath before continuing.

"I'm going to say it again," she started more calmly, unfolding her arms and pressing her palms toward the floor in a calming gesture. "Someone WILL be staying with you, whether you like it or not. At least until you're able to get around on your own and you can PROVE that to me."

He met her gaze and snapped back, "And how am I supposed to prove that to you? You installing surveillance cameras at my place? Or maybe a spy to watch me through my front window?"

"If I have to, yes." He was her employee and also a patient in her hospital, but it was more than that. She felt a responsibility, an odd connection to him that stemmed back since...how long had it been? Maybe even back to their time together in college at Michigan. There was always something more than just a friendship or employer/employee relationship in her mind.

Maybe it was the underlying guilt that had a stranglehold around her conscience. On occasion the noose would tighten, such as during times like this, when she truly saw his disability, no longer hidden behind the cane, behind the constant sarcasm and lewd remarks. A reminder of mistakes made in the past. She wasn't about to leave him alone at home no matter how much he whined and pouted. She'd be disappointed and a bit worried if he _didn't_ give her a battle, but she wouldn't be able to live with herself if something happened to him while alone at home. Was she doing this for him or for her own peace of mind? Deep down, maybe she was still trying to make amends for the mess seven years ago, still trying to fix what could never be repaired.

"Since when did I put you in charge of my life?" he asked, taking a moment to blow a few bubbles in his chocolate milk, "I don't remember signing any important-looking papers recently giving you custody, unless it was when I was drugged out of my mind in the ER." He stuck his spoon in the orange Jell-O, standing it upright in the transparent gelatin. "By the way, remind me to thank Cameron."

"When are you NOT drugged out of your mind?"

"Ow. That hurts, you know."

"You have a choice here. We can set up home care for you through the rehab center, or you can provide your own personal assistant, if anyone would be willing or stupid enough to actually WANT the job." _Or suicidal_, she thought.

"Ooooh, I have a choice?" he answered condescendingly. "My choice is E: None of the above. I don't need help! I'm a big boy now. I can pee standing up and ev...okay... well, right now I can't, but I can take care of myself."

"You couldn't take care of yourself when you had..." She let her words trail off, not wanting to stray into those waters. "Do you really think you'll be able to maneuver around on your own? Able to get in and out of the wheelchair? Bathe yourself? Go to the bathroom? Cook? Clean? ...okay, scratch the last two. You never did those things before, why start now?"

"And how would you know? Maybe I've become a gourmet chef? My place is 'lived in'; sorry it's not the sterile, cold environment like your precious hospital, but I call it home. What's that saying about not judging a book by its cover? Or was it 'don't count your chickens before they've hatched'...something like that. Anyway, I've been in a wheelchair before and somehow managed to survive all by myself."

"You also had at least one strong, functioning leg then, too."

"And unbearable pain in the other I seem to recall, yet I managed just fine," he added as he continued mixing the remains of his Jell-O in with his untouched beef broth, making her stomach turn at the sight.

"Oh, was that when Wilson went to go see you and ended up basically having to have your apartment fumigated? Yeah, you took _great_ care of yourself. A prime example of superior hygiene. He said he had to burn the clothes you were wearing."

"They had character," he added with a hint of sadness. "Luckily, I took them off first."

"They stunk and had, as Wilson phrased it, 'suspicious' stains on them." She also knew that Wilson had disposed of the T-shirt and pajama pants because, in some odd way, he had felt House still held some kind of connection with Stacy through the clothing he was wearing when she had left him. They were like a lifeline he clung to in hopes of her return. Wilson saw that House needed to move on and the first step was getting rid of the clothes he had been wearing for almost two weeks straight.

"Okay, TMI. You and Wilson share some strange details of my life. That's just freaky." He shuddered. "And how could you remember that? That was like almost eight years ago."

"You're unforgettable in your own unique way" She paused for a moment. "He kept me up on your recovery."

His voice took on a serious note. "You could've stopped by. Checked to see how I was doing. Besides, you can't use that as an example. Different situation. Different circumstances."

He stared longingly back down at his hands resting on the tray table in front of him. She could see the recollection in his eyes from that difficult time in his life, the memories bubbling to the surface, erupting across his face into a look of genuine regret. Maybe it wasn't regret. Was it melancholy? She tried to decipher the brief glimpse in his eyes that seemed to open a window directly to his heart, but just as soon as he let those emotions flicker briefly, he quickly suppressed them, pushing them back behind the protective barrier he had built over the last seven years or so.

He immediately returned to his comfort zone, the corner of his lip raised slightly as he continued, "Maybe I wouldn't have had some of those suspicious stains if you'd been there to satisfy my needs, take care of me, be there to catch my spills," he leered, cocking his eyebrow and grimacing slightly as he reached up and touched the gash on his forehead.

"Oh, grow up." God, he could be so immature at times.

"I was talking about the food stains on my pants. Geez, get your mind out of the gutter." He continued making different concoctions with the supplies in front of him.

"Quit trying to change the subject. You will have someone helping you at home or you'll be moved to the rehab facility here at the hospital. That's final."

"So, basically, I have to have some stranger in my house, helping me shit, shower, get dressed, feed me, to tuck me in at night. God, you make me sound like a piece of asparagus you picked up from Whole Foods. In case you haven't noticed," holding up his arm and pinching the skin as proof, "I'm not a part of the vegetable group."

She ignored his remark and continued, bound and determined to get through this, "Or you can have Wilson help you out, like I mentioned earlier."

"No, like I answered earlier."

The man was beyond stubborn. "What is it with you?"

"Don't you think he's done enough damage already?" His eyes swung towards his repaired leg wrapped like a burrito, propped up on pillows. "Who knows, maybe it'll be a bus next time." She knew deep down he was joking, at least she hoped he was. This was House: he deflected blame better than anyone else on the planet.

"You can't be serious." Cuddy placed her hands on her hips in disapproval. "He probably saved your life and this is how you repay him?"

"Repay him?" House repeated, "I didn't know we'd started keeping score."

"How does he put up with you...?" She had begun pacing back and forth at the foot of House's bed at some point during this conversation, when that was, she had no clue. Her hand found its way to her own forehead in an attempt to prevent the headache slowly building behind her eyes.

She stopped and looked at his barely-touched lunch tray and then at him, which was a big mistake. Her own barriers crumbled as she looked at him. _Really_ looked at him. She saw his injuries, the IV, the monitors, and fell immediately into Protective Mother mode.

Damn him.

"And you need to try to eat something," she added with a bit of softness entering her voice.

It was so difficult to be tough when he looked so vulnerable, so helpless. She couldn't look at him without memories of the infarction surging to the forefront of her thoughts. Scenes from that tragic time in their lives kept filling her head: the pain, the screaming, the devastation on his face when she had told him what had been done. How he had fallen into a deep depression, avoiding all contact with the outside world...except for Wilson. For some reason, House had continued, somewhat reluctantly, letting his friend behind the closed doors and covered windows into his ruined life. The life that had been left in shambles both physically and emotionally.

Wilson had ended up being Cuddy's eyes and ears during House's recovery, feeding her bits of information on his well-being and how House was coping with the pain and his new disability.

She silently contemplated what might have happened if Wilson hadn't been there for him. House probably wouldn't have made it through that difficult period while he learned to compensate for the pieces of his life that had been taken away from him so abruptly. He needed to somehow reassemble his life. Pick up those broken pieces and put them back together. To return to being the complete person he was before his body...and Stacy had betrayed him. She shuddered to think about the other possible outcomes might have been during that trying time if Wilson hadn't been there for him.

She tried to file those thoughts back on the highest shelf in the deepest corner of her memories, somewhere difficult to reach, but somehow her mind always found the proverbial step stool and yanked them back off the shelf again.

"I wouldn't classify _this_," poking a spoon at his liquid lunch, "as edible." He turned his nose up at the vile brown liquid in the plastic container that now contained congealed blobs of half-melted Jell-O. "How do they make beef broth anyway? Do they like squeeze all the juice out of ground beef and then boil it? It's just gross." She had to admit that it looked fairly disgusting and didn't smell much better, even with the hint of added orange flavor.

"A few more hours until your system wakes up. Then I'll have them send you a tray."

"Trust me: this would wake up anyone's digestive tract," pushing the tray away as a sign of protest.

She returned to the subject at hand. "Wilson's volunteered to help you out for a while."

House snorted. "Pfft. Of course he has. He's got to somehow ease his overriding guilt for throwing a helpless cripple in front of a runaway tire."

He really knew how to play it up. Cuddy defended Wilson adamantly.

"From what he's told me, he didn't _throw_ you, and I tend to trust his version long before I'd believe anything that comes out of your mouth. Besides, he was trying to help you and you're not a helpless crip-"

He cut her off before she even had a chance to finish. "I am right now. I'm the poster boy for crippledness."

"Fine. So does that mean you'll accept Wilson's offer to help?" He was admitting his immobility. Maybe this was her opening. A chance to wiggle her way into getting the response she had originally hoped for. But this was House she was talking to.

House looked back up at Cuddy. "Nice try. Wilson feels if he can help me, he can fix everything. It's his own form of self-sacrifice. He thinks he can make it all better by designating himself as my slave, my maid, my bitch. Whatever you want to call it."

"I'd call him a 'friend.'"

"I'd call him pathetic."

"I know it's impossible for you to understand that someone might actually care about you and want to voluntarily help." She tried to explain how the rest of the human race worked.

"Give it up, you're not going to win. Let me say it again: I. Don't. Need. Help."

"We'll see about that. So, should I just call a cab for you when you're ready to get out of here? Are you going to levitate," she held her hands out in front of her and wiggled her fingers for effect, "yourself into the back seat? Gonna wheel yourself up the steps to your front do..."

"My building has a handicapped entrance in back. Ramp and everything. Something to do with that law... oh yeah, the Americans with Disabilities Act," House stated. "Heard of it?"

"I'm not giving up."

"Fine. Can I have my remote back now?" Cuddy had snagged it from him when she had demanded his full attention, which was virtually impossible with the television blaring in the background.

"It's not YOUR remote. It's the hospital's, and-"

"I'm paying for this room, or at least my insurance is, so it's mine until-"

A hesitant knock interrupted his retort as the door slowly slid open. They turned their heads in unison toward the source of the interruption. Cuddy recognized one of House's new fellows immediately. It was the one with the black hair. Kutner. He looked a bit hesitant, unsure of himself. She decided to pursue her argument at a later time, when she and House were alone.

She pivoted and focused her attention on Kutner, preparing to ask him if there was something she could help him with when House decided to chime in.

"What do you want?" House demanded in a clipped tone. She felt a momentary pang of sympathy for his new fellow, who continued to stand there with his mouth agape and eyes transfixed, staring at his boss in the hospital bed.

House continued, "And what the hell are you doing here on a Sunday...it is still Sunday, right?" looking at Cuddy for confirmation. She nodded her head slightly, tight lipped.

House glanced down at Kutner's right hand, which currently held a small bouquet of light pink flowers in a slim vase.

"Why are you hiding flowers behind your back?" House asked in his deep gravelly voice.

Kutner looked as though he thought more than once about turning around and fleeing for the exit. He stealthily slid the bouquet of pink flowers behind his back, wearing a tight lipped smile.

"Are you going to answer my question or continue to stare at me dumbly?"

Kutner looked a bit shell-shocked and uncomfortable. House obviously still had this guy completely intimidated, even when lying in a hospital bed, unable to do more than shoot threatening glances his direction. He was keeping a fair distance from the bed, as if House would somehow leap up and pounce on his hapless employee and disembowel him right where he stood.

"I.. well..brought...um, thought you might want these." He pulled the bouquet out from behind his back.

"I don't do flowers."

Kutner ignored the comment and set them proudly on the top of the bureau to House's right.

"Great, now I can sit here and watch them wilt and die a slow, miserable death," he stated bluntly as he fidgeted in the bed, physically moving his legs with his hands as he tried to find a more comfortable position.

She could see Kutner fighting back the urge to help as he stood uncomfortably next to House's bed, one hand in the front pocket of his jeans, the other reaching toward the card attached to the gift. "No, well, it comes with this little packet of plant food you sprinkle in the water and..." He shut up and stuck his other hand back in his pocket when House's glare started burning a hole in his forehead.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to say 'thank you' once in a while." Cuddy said, trying to remain stoic.

"What? And lose the awesome power I hold over my minions? He was the one stupid enough to show up here in the first place. You'd think he'd have learned by now."

Kutner's feet remained glued to the floor, his mouth open and his eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion.

"And how the hell did you know I was even here?" House asked him while glaring over at Cuddy suspiciously.

"Don't look at me!" She answered defensively. "Why would I purposefully invite anyone here to have to deal with your insanity? Besides, don't you torture them enough at work?" She turned toward Kutner. "You really haven't learned yet, have you?"

He raised an eyebrow in question as Cuddy turned on her heel to leave.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything important?" Kutner asked with sincerity in his voice.

"No, you didn't," House replied for Cuddy, staring at her as she walked towards the open door.

She glanced back over her shoulder. "This conversation is not over."

"I can't wait..." House muttered under his breath as he pushed the tray table towards Kutner, who had to hop to his right to avoid being run over by rolling cart.

--

"Well?" House asked expectantly, absently reaching down to rub his right thigh.

"What?"

"You obviously want something, or you just felt the need to suck up to me in every possible way. You've got the job; sucking up is no longer necessary. Unless you're actually trying to get yourself fired now."

A wave of fear washed over him as he suddenly became very interested in the tiles under House's bed. "I was just trying to be nice. Thought you might like some company."

"So let me get this straight," House started, pushing his hands against the bed, scooting his upper body more upright against the raised head of the bed. Kutner caught a slight grimace from House as he tried to settle back against the pillows, looking clearly uncomfortable.

"You okay?"

"Fine." House answered brusquely, "As I was saying, you drove all the way here on-"

"I'm only ten minutes away."

"Would you let me finish?" Kutner shut his mouth instantly, letting House continue, "You came here on your day off just to visit me and see how I was doing? You can't be serious."

"Well, yeah." Kutner answered, "You really got nailed and I just wanted to make sure you were-"

House interrupted, "Wait, how do you know what happened? Even hospital gossip doesn't spread that fast." He was starting his own differential on possible suspects. "It's Sunday, so that rules out any of the regular big mouths at the nurse's station..."

"I was-"

"It had to be someone with connections...wait, you're not sleeping with Cameron, are you? Getting insider info? She's the only one who knows besides Wilson..." House hesitated, "Please tell me you're not sleeping with Wil-"

He didn't even give House a chance to finish his interrogation. "What? No! I saw you at-"

"So that only leaves Masterson...he's married, and Chase... oh, please tell me it was Chase."

"No, no one told me...is Cameron actually available?"

"Why are you asking me? I don't keep her date book for her." House said, looking a bit impatient. "Let's get back to the important things here, like how did you know I was inj-"

"I was there!" he blurted out, "Saw the whole thing; Gravedigger, the tire, you getting flattened...well, I didn't know it was you at first. Then you were on the video screen and I thought 'no way!'" The words were starting to pour out of his mouth, running together in one long incoherent sentence.

House could do nothing more than stare back in utter shock, his mouth hanging open with a look of bewilderment as Kutner continued. "I mean, you got hit by Gravedigger's tire! How many people could actually sa-"

"Stop." House ordered, raising a hand and scrunching his face. "You're giving me a headache." He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand.

He shut his mouth for about five seconds. "So, that tire really messed up your leg, huh?"

"Nah. Just thought I'd stop by and have a titanium rod shoved through the middle of my tibia for kicks."

"Cool." A smile crept across his face as he pictured the broken bones in House's leg. "Was it a compound fracture?"

"Glad my broken bones are amusing you." House's eyebrows furrowed, "What did you see?"

"It happened so fast. Didn't even see it really. I watched the replay on the video screen."

"They got it on tape?" His eyes grew wide in anticipation as he truly focused on Kutner for the first time since he had entered the room.

"Yeah, but the camera was pretty far away. Couldn't see anything distinct. All I could see was the tire and then you on the ground."

"Figures."

"Then I saw that guy interview you. You were wearing a Gravedigger hat. That's so cool! Why didn't you tell me you were a Monster Truck fan?" His insides were stirring with excitement with this newfound connection with House.

"I didn't know we had to share our deepest darkest secrets with each other, wanna sit down and paint my toenails now?"

"It's just that I don't know too many other Monster Truck fans. Maybe next time we can go as a team! Maybe take the others." He pictured the four of them...well, maybe five if Foreman wanted to join them...sitting in the stands eating pizza, drinking beer, cheering with each rev of the Monster Truck's engine.

"Yeah, let's have a field trip!" House added with mock excitement before his face fell back into a scowl. "You can go now."

"But I just got here. Do you need anything? I can run upstairs and-"

"Hey." Another familiar voice from the doorway filled the room.

"Ahhhh. Wilson. Just in time to save me from having pink toenails." To Kutner's surprise, Wilson didn't even so much as lift an eyebrow. Obviously, the other doctor had become immune to the unique sense of humor House possessed. He wondered how long the two of them had known each other.

Kutner was going to defend his own manhood by denying any use of nail polish, but opted for a simple response. "Hey, Dr. Wilson."

"Hi. What are you doing here? Is House not torturing you enough during the week?" Wilson pretty much repeating Cuddy's question from earlier.

"I thought I'd stop by and see how he was doing."

"He brought _flowers_," House added with a look of disdain. "I obviously haven't scared him enough yet."

Wilson followed House's eyes to the pink flowers displayed proudly on the bureau. "Peonies. Nice."

House rolled his eyes a full 360 degrees. "Why am I not surprised you knew what kind of flowers they were? I'm starting to think about revoking your man card. Both of you," he swung his eyes between Kutner and Wilson in a disappointed manner.

"Just because you lack any kind of social or behavioral skills doesn't mean the rest of us have to revert back to cavemen."

"But those were such-" House's sentence was cut short as his face contorted and he reached for his left leg. A tight gasp was heard escaping through his clenched teeth. "Sonofabitch." The words ran together as Kutner watched House's right thumb slide discreetly over the button for his PCA pump, releasing a measured dose of morphine into his system.

Since Kutner had first met House, he'd seen him flinch or maybe slightly grimace on occasion when he moved his right leg too quickly or got up too fast but he never saw House reveal his pain like this.

"I take it the block's worn off?" Wilson asked bluntly.

"Wow, you must be a psychic or something," his face still twisted in pain as he gently lifted the heavily braced leg with both hands and repositioned it on the pillows. Wilson quickly shifted to the left side of House's bed and reached under House's ankle with his left hand, placing his leg slightly higher on the pillow. House continued grasping his left leg above the knee almost as if he was trying to strangle the life out of it, his eyes remaining squeezed shut.

While watching the interaction between House and Wilson, he couldn't help but sense a certain connection between the two of them. More than just coworkers, maybe it was even more than a simple friendship. Who was he to say, though? But Wilson seemed to be able to get away with so much more when it came to dealing with House. He knew that if he would've tried laying a hand on House, he probably would've ended up with a fist in his face...or someplace else.

House had relaxed back against the bed again, eyeing Wilson suspiciously. "You're not using your right arm."

"Maybe because you're on my left side. Oh, and maybe because of the fact that I'm left handed," Wilson snapped back, fluffing the extra pillow by House's foot with his left hand.

"Do you need another pillow?" Wilson kept his eyes glued to the foot of House's bed as he purposely used his right arm in an act of defiance, taking out any frustrations on the fluffy, synthetic fiber filled rectangle.

Kutner quietly waited to see if House would bite Wilson's head off. All Wilson got was a muttered 'no'.

"What I need is to get out of this damn bed and get home where I can sleep in peace and not have people bugging me every damn minute." House reached his hands over his head and pivoted at his waist a few times back and forth. A few dull cracks could be heard from the bed. "God, my back is killing me."

"You've only been here about seven hours," Wilson stated, finally giving up on pummeling the pillow as he glanced in disgust at House's lunch tray still sitting on the rolling table.

"Nooooo." House stretched out the word before adding, "How about more like sixteen."

"I'm not counting the five when you were out," Wilson calculated, "So really it's only been about seven."

"I believe I was flat on my back during those hours, too. And it's eleven, not seven. I'm assuming math isn't your strong suit, hence the reason for becoming a doctor."

"I'm not counting the other two hours in the ER or the last few hours when you've been sitting up," Wilson countered.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm still lying on my back. Against this mattress. Not moving. You try to lie in one position for hours on end. _Eleven_ hours that is."

Wilson threw his hands up in frustration, Kutner noticing how Wilson was less enthusiastic with his right arm. House was right. Something in Dr. Wilson's right arm was definitely bothering him. It went unnoticed by House who had been staring at his own feet. "Why are we even having this argument?" Wilson's tone had gotten a bit terse. "You'll use some twisted logic to prove your calculations are correct and I really don't feel like having a meaningless argument right now."

Kutner stood back and watched the two doctors bicker about semantics. Man, they sounded like an old married couple.

"And what do you find so amusing?" House asked Kutner, who'd been smirking at the entire incident.

"Um, nothing."

"Why are you still here? Didn't I say you could leave now?" House's grumpiness seemed to coincide with his pain level, which seemed to be reaching closer to the summit.

Kutner's eyes fell to the floor as he turned to leave, only to be frozen where he stood when he glanced at the doorway.

House and Wilson both turned to see what had frozen Kutner in his tracks.

The three of them stared, mouths agape, shocked at the sight before them.

A/N: I might have made Kutner a little, um, overly excited. But I've seen brief moments of this attitude, especially with his excitement over doing secret santa. Hopefully not too OOC for him. First time writing him!

--


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: First I want to sincerely apologize for the extremely long interval between chapters. Between real life and the angstiness that was the last two episodes, I had a very difficult time finishing this chapter. With that said...on with the story.**

Chapter 9

The three of them stared, mouths agape, shocked at the sight before them.

In the doorway stood Cuddy, in her typical low cut frilly blouse and too-tight skirt. But what really grabbed Wilson's attention were not the two unmentionables on Cuddy's chest but the two men to her left, both wearing black crew shirts with the Gravedigger emblem embroidered on the left breast pocket. He recognized the larger man with the greying fu-manchu mustache as none other than Dennis Anderson, the driver of Gravedigger. Wilson's heart began racing as he felt the heat creep upwards from his toes all the way to the top of his head. He swore his ears were about to catch fire.

Wilson was suddenly grateful he wasn't the one lying in the hospital bed as he heard House's heart monitor kick up to about eighty-five beats per minute; a dead give away to House's excitement at seeing the Monster Truck celebrity standing just a few feet in front of him.

House glanced at his left hand and followed the clear tube running up to the IV pump above his left shoulder, eyeing it suspiciously. "Are you sure there's morphine in there and not LSD? Because I could swear I see Dennis Anderson standing in the doorway."

"I know you don't like to have visitors, so I could send them away if you'd like," Cuddy said with a sly smile.

"What?" House looked up in mock surprise. "I LOVE company, as you can see by the other guests taking up space in MY room." He looked at Wilson and Kutner with accusation in his eyes.

Dennis entered the room, a gentle smile on his rugged face, his mostly grey hair and mustache reflecting the bright lights of the room. His assistant or whoever it was accompanying him, had a large bag in his left hand.

The driver strode up to House's bedside and offered his hand. "Hi. Dennis Anderson. You must be Dr. House."

House eagerly took the offered right hand and shook it vigorously. "You can call me Greg. This is so awesome." Wilson looked at the strange man lying in the bed with the goofy smile on his face, wondering if House had been replaced by some alien life form.

Cuddy turned toward the door. "I'll leave you gentlemen alone. You should be relatively safe since Dr. House isn't exactly mobile at the moment." She threw a devious grin House's direction as she left the room.

Kutner stood there in shock, staring in disbelief. "That's. Dennis. Anderson," he bluntly noted, repeating House's words from less than a minute ago, totally oblivious to the entire conversation taking place before him. "The driver of Gravedigger!"

"Wow, you're brilliant." House noted, correcting Kutner's observation. "Not just the driver...THE driver, the creator, the mastermind behind the coolest Monster Truck ever."

Dennis and his crewmember smiled appreciatively before Dennis continued. "We were getting ready to leave town and thought we should pay you a visit. How are you doing?"

Wilson cringed in anticipation of House's response. He knew how much House hated that question. Hopefully he would contain his sarcasm and all out assiness long enough to prevent a major incident.

"Not too bad considering I was flattened by a half ton tire. I could be wrong but aren't those things supposed to stay ON your truck? Unless it's some kind of new promotion. You throw the tires into the crowd at the end of the race, like those T shirt tosses at the hockey game," House explained, "except for the possibility of the souvenir potentially killing you when you try to catch it."

The driver grinned at House's comment. "No, we like to keep them attached to the truck if at all possible."

"Then you might want to look for a new mechanic," the man next to Dennis furrowed his eyebrows at House's suggestion as Wilson's earlier observation was confirmed, "or maybe stop buying your parts from China."

Dennis snickered a bit. "We manufacture most of our own parts, but I'll look into a new mechanic," he added jokingly, earning a concerned look from who, Wilson assumed, must have been must have been his chief mechanic standing next to him.

The driver glanced at the vase Kutner had placed on the bureau. "Nice flowers. Peonies, right?" Dennis asked, looking for confirmation.

Wilson looked at House with a devilish grin, smugness written across his face as if to say "Ha!"

House replied in a patronizing tone, his voice rising an octave. "Why yes. Yes, they are."

"I got those for him." Kutner announced proudly, emphasizing the "I" as he pointed to his chest.

"Hey, I got peonies from one of my peons. Cool." House stated, amusing himself as Kutner stood staring dumbly at the Monster Truck celebrity.

Dennis made an effort to take the few steps to greet Kutner, who shook his hand vigorously, appearing a bit starstruck. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

"Oh, this is Kutner." House motioned towards his catatonic employee. "We call him Dr. Defibrillator for short." Kutner offered a nod, his lips curling up in a slight smile.

"And this is Dr. Wilson." House motioned toward him at the foot of the bed. "He's the one who shoved me in front of your tire."

He knew it, he knew it, he knew it. House just HAD to add that jab in there. It wasn't like he didn't feel like crap already about the whole incident.

"Of course he'll deny that." House continued.

Wilson reached out with his right hand, instantly regretting it as Dennis took a firm grip and shook it firmly, sending a shooting pain up into his elbow. He did his best to keep his hand relaxed but the movement still hurt like a bitch. He instinctively winced, gasping slightly as he held back his desire to yell an obscenity.

House noticed his feeble attempt at hiding his discomfort and added, "Just like he's denying anything's wrong with his arm," as he sent Wilson one of his piercing stares that seemed to be able to penetrate lead and see right through Wilson's facade.

Dennis released his grip and apologized.

"It's fine, I just landed awkwardly on it." He flexed his hand a bit as daggers flew from his eyes and were hurled House's direction.

Dennis's face grew concerned, "You should get that checked. It might be a sprain or something." Wilson cringed inwardly. When you're hurt, suddenly everyone's a doctor.

He remained polite. "Yes, I know. I know. Thanks. I plan on it." He cupped his hand gently around the end of his elbow, being careful not to put too much pressure on the tender joint as he looked down at his light blue long-sleeved polo shirt covering the damage.

The elbow seemed to be getting worse as the day went on. In the shower that morning he had noticed the dark purple bruise encircling his entire elbow; the end of his ulna bone hidden under swelling. It hurt to touch it, even the pressure of a rolled up sleeve was too much, sending a burning sensation throughout the middle of his arm.

"Sure you do." House turned back toward the other men. "He'll just keep suffering quietly until his arm falls off or he grows a few more brain cells and decides to get it checked."

Who was House to comment on someone needing medical treatment, anyway? Wilson couldn't count how many times he'd tried to persuade House to get treatment, whether for increased pain in his leg or when he'd contracted pneumonia a few years ago and kept insisting it was only a cold, even when Wilson could hear the rasps in House's breathing throughout his insistence that he was fine. Wilson ended up almost physically carrying him to the clinic himself after finding him wheezing and semi-conscious in his lounge chair late one evening. When House had reluctantly agreed to treatment and was admitted, his oxygen SATs had been downright scary.

House was the king of denial. Denial he had mastered over recent years. Denial that had caused him to become permanently disabled because he was too damn stubborn to admit his own pain, telling himself and everyone else around him that it was nothing more than a strain; he'd walk it off. Now House lived with the consequences of his denial (and the doctor's incompetence) every day of his life.

Wilson looked up to see Kutner aiming his cell phone Dennis's direction, taking poorly pixelated pics of the Gravedigger crew. Dennis smiled politely as Kutner snapped away.

"That's just sad," House stated with disappointment in his voice.

"It's perfectly alright. Feel free." Dennis said.

"How about one with the two of you?" Kutner recommended, working on racking up those Brownie points with House.

"Sure." Dennis made his way to House's bedside, leaning over the rail a bit to get close enough to House to fit both of them into the picture.

House's eyebrows knitted together as he sent a deadly glare Kutner's direction. He looked ready to jump out of bed and strangle him with the IV line. "Point that thing somewhere else before it becomes a permanent part of your anatomy."

He made a futile grab for the cell phone just out of his reach, gasping as he jarred his left leg which, in turn, caused him to involuntarily flex his right thigh. "Godammit..." He muttered as he leaned back against the pillows, his face lined with pain.

"You okay?" concerned voices asked in unison.

"Just take the damn picture and get it over with." House snapped as he regained control over the sudden jolt to his nervous system.

Kutner snapped a few shots then Dennis stood up, eyeing the braced left leg and jagged gash on House's forehead, empathy etched across his rugged features. "How bad is it?"

"Looks like I'll have to give up my slot on this year's Olympic sprint team," repositioning himself with a grunt once again.

"So do you visit all of the fans you injure and put in the hospital?" Wilson cringed at House's remark. There was that House charm Wilson had been waiting for. He was surprised it took this long. Probably because House actually had an ounce of respect for the driver.

Dennis, being the good sport and polite person he was, responded with grace. "Luckily, that list is pretty short. You're in elite company."

"Cool. Do I win a prize? Maybe get to keep the tire as a souvenir?"

Wilson intervened."Please excuse my friend. He's had a bit too much morphine. Or maybe that head injury is a little worse than we thought," giving House the evil eye.

Dennis laughed, "No, but I do have a couple of get well gifts for you."

"You mean bribes?" House corrected as the other crew member rummaged through the large bag.

Wilson covered his face, anticipating House's usual rhetoric regarding people's motives when it came to gift giving. According to House, everyone had an agenda. People didn't give gifts to be kind. There was always an ulterior motive involved, at least in House's cynical view of the world.

House continued. "Just so you know, you're in the clear. I signed one of those 'I promise not to sue anyone if I end up dead' thingies. But if your offer still stands, I'll take the totally cool bribes you brought me."

Wilson caught a glimpse of something black as the mechanic handed some items to Dennis.

"I hear you're quite a Gravedigger fan and we caught part of that video of you at the race." He explained as he kept his back to House and Wilson. "That hat you were wearing must be at least fifteen years old."

"Got it in '86," House announced proudly, "the year you beat Big Foot and took over the top position. You don't know how happy I was to see Big Foot finally go down."

"Wow, I'm impressed. You really ARE a fan, aren't you?" Dennis replied. "Well, we decided you needed to update your wardrobe."

He turned around and shook out a black T-shirt in front of him and held it up for display. It was a 25th anniversary special edition T-shirt with the image of Gravedigger, looking as menacing as ever.

"Niiiiice." House drawled as he took the T-shirt and held it against his chest to model it for himself.

Wilson felt just a slight pang of jealousy as he watched his friend collect the gifts from the Gravedigger crew. A new black and neon green hat and a large scale R/C Gravedigger were pulled out of the bag, making House's eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. Wilson found it slightly endearing to watch his abrasive friend's rough exterior soften a bit. This kind gesture from the Gravedigger driver was not only a good distraction for House at the moment but was also helping ease his own guilt he'd been experiencing since this whole mess happened the night before.

House made a "gimme" gesture with his hand as Dennis set the toy truck in House's awaiting hands. The toy had to be at least a foot tall and about 18 inches long with huge, oversized tires relative to the body. A perfect mini replica. House turned it over and over in his hands, checking out all of the little items, such as the red headlights and the intricate painting on the side of the truck, complete with headstones and all.

"This thing's amazingly detailed." he complimented, squeezing the mini tire between his finger and thumb,"even the tires are real rubber. Cool."

Wilson could see the mischievous look on House's face; the slightly raised corner of his lip, that gleam in his eye. He sensed trouble brewing in that twisted mind of House's.

House flipped the switch on the truck's undercarriage, waiting for the sound of electronic whirs and hums, but nothing happened. Wilson sighed with relief in response.

"I thought it felt a bit light," House stated, experimentally weighing the vehicle in his hands with a look of disappointment on his face.

"Shoot, I'm so sorry. I thought it already had a battery." The man sounded genuinely disappointed.

"Just one battery?" Kutner questioned, lust in his eyes, ready to swipe the mini truck the moment House lowered his guard.

"It takes one of those special NiCad batteries. Those things last forever."

House fixed his eyes on Wilson. "I guess that means you'll be going on a special mission." He watched House set the truck on the tray table next to the disgusting remains of House's lunch.

"Gee, let me guess. The hobby shop." Wilson speculated. He made a mental note to delay that task as long as possible.

"Wow, it's like you can read my mind or something." House reached for his left leg and physically repositioned it again on the pillow, grimacing slightly with the movement. Wilson wasn't sure if the gesture was a ploy by House or if he was seriously in some discomfort. He continued to indulge House in his quest for battery powered entertainment.

"So, your plan is to lay the guilt trip on me until I cave and give in to you?

"Hasn't failed me yet. It's the least you could do since I'm stuck in this damn bed with nothing better to do than to flip aimlessly through numerous channels of mind numbing television."

"Like you'd be doing anything different."

"Not the point. You owe me."

"I owe you? You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me." Wilson tried to have faith in his own words but that annoying monkey named Guilt had no interest in leaving its perch upon his shoulder. But he wasn't about to let House get away with this one.

"You're right. I'd be at home, lounging in front of my own TV on my own couch in my own apartment in my own clothes." punctuating his last remark by demonstratively grabbing his hospital issued gown.

How many times was House going to keep twisting that damn knife into his already wounded psyche? Wilson kept his face neutral, not allowing House to find any weakness in his exterior. He knew that if House found a dent in his armor, the verbal assault would only increase until he ended up a blubbering, apologetic heap on the floor and he was not about to let that happen, especially in front of an audience.

"Can we please discuss this later?" Wilson gave a not-in-front-of-the-kids nod toward the others.

The remaining occupants in the room watched the exchange of words like a tennis match, heads darting back and forth between the two players as they continued to volley barbs at one another.

"Are they always like this?" The mechanic finally opened his mouth, pointing towards the two bickering friends.

"Um, sometimes. They're very close friends." Kutner answered.

"We've thought about becoming permanently joined at the hip, but that would've made it hard to walk." House retorted.

"You already have a hard enough time walking." Wilson answered with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Maybe that's because you act like we're already joined at the hip, walking on top of me any time I try to get somewhere in this hospital. Ever heard of personal space?"

"Fine. I'll start walking three steps behind you. Would that make you happy?"

"The Alpha dog always leads the pack. About time you figured that out."

Wilson couldn't help the self-assured grin that crept its way on to his own face. Deep down he knew who the Alpha dog was in their relationship. "Oh, I think that was determined a few months back." He cleared his throat and coughed out "mirror guy" under his breath.

"Oh, please. The only reason he thought you were in charge was because you were overseeing the surgery, so you were the dominant one in THAT particular setting. If it were...say... in MY office or in the clinic or-"

"Give it up."

House played the ignorance game and changed the subject, motioning toward Dennis who had been watching the exchange with a silly grin on his face. "So, you do autographs, right?" House asked with more politeness than Wilson ever thought possible.

"Of course. What would you like signed?"

"Hmmm. You could sign my cast if I actually had one...but..." he contemplated for a second. "How about the splint?"

"Sure." A Sharpie magically appeared out of thin air (which seemed to be a trick mastered by any person famous enough to sign autographs) as Dennis looked questioningly at House's wrapped leg, looking for some available area to leave his mark. His hand waved over the wrapped appendage as if he was performing some kind of magic trick to heal the broken bones. "Uhhhhh, I'm not really sure where I can sign."

That was an accurate observation, considering House's entire leg was pretty much wrapped up inside a giant cocoon, with nothing but Ace bandage covering him from mid thigh to toes. Wilson took a closer look at the splint and found a bit of the plastic sticking out on the bottom of House's foot just below his toes. "I found a spot."

"Great. Sure, pick the one place I can't see." House grumbled.

"You'll get to stare at it all you want AFTER you get this off in a week or so."

Dennis leaned over the end of the bed and gently scribbled his name on the designated area.

"How much do you think this would get me on eBay?" House asked, indicating the signed brace with a nod.

"I don't think anyone would want that after it's been on your sweaty foot for two weeks." Wilson explained.

House begged to differ. "You underestimate the power of eBay. If someone can sell clipped toenails on there, then I'm sure-"

Wilson's eyes squeezed shut involuntarily at the picture in his head. "That's fairly disgusting...and how did you know about the toe...never mind. I don't want to know," he decided, raising a hand up in defense.

Dennis must have noticed the envious stares or the drool running out of the corner of Kutner's mouth. "Would either of you like an autograph?"

Kutner who had quietly been standing there observing from a distance, snapped out of his trance-like state and leapt toward Dennis like a kitten pouncing on it's favorite toy. "Yes. I'd love it! Could you just hang on for one minute? I have something in the car from last night. I'll be right back."

Before anyone could utter a single word, he'd left the room and skidded sideways out the door, gripping the frame to prevent himself from falling on his face before taking off in a sprint down the hallway, the sound of squeaking gym shoes echoing off the walls and fading out of earshot within seconds.

"Well. I guess he'll be right back then." Dennis stated, twisting his neck around to peer down the hallway. Wilson could only imagine what this poor guy was thinking and what he'd gotten himself into by making this unplanned visit.

"I can't wait," came the groan from the bed. "And yes. He's as big an idiot as he appears."

"How about you...Wilson, right?"

"Right. Or James. Either one. Uh, no. That's okay. It's not necessary. I don't want to put-" Wilson stuttered.

"Wilson bats for the other team," House rudely interrupted.

"House." Wilson's finger and thumb involuntarily squeezed the bridge of his nose, pressing deeply into the corners of his eye sockets. The man was impossible.

"What? I'm just saying you like that other truck...what was it? Black Betty? Black Hole, Black-"

"Stallion." Wilson mumbled under his breath, embarrassed to be admitting loyalty to another team. "It's not... It doesn't mean I don't like Gravedigger. It's just... I tend to cheer for the underdog." He stammered, feeling the heat rise in his face as every ounce of blood in his system seemed to defy gravity and settle in his head. He knew by House's smirk that he was probably beet red by now. Ass.

"Hey, if everyone liked the same truck, I think the races would be pretty boring," Dennis explained, offering that warm smile again. "No hard feelings." He reached behind him and snagged an extra hat out of the bag, quickly scribbled his signature across the grey brim and handed it to Wilson.

"Here ya go. Sell it on eBay if you'd like." He joked as he signed House's T-shirt and new hat. "I don't think you'll get much though. I'm not THAT popular."

"Thank you very much. I'll treasure it, really." The last sentence gained an overly exaggerated eyeroll from House.

He checked out the freshly signed hat and had to admit it was pretty cool. Maybe being a Gravedigger fan wouldn't be so bad... but then he'd have to put up with House's constant harassment about how he just wanted to be like House, feeding the man's already oversized ego.

"Suck-up," House grumbled.

"Oh, shut up." Wilson responded, but then paused as he focused his attention on the source of the words and noticed House's posture. House had squeezed those last few words through a clenched jaw and had become suddenly fascinated with something on the ceiling. Wilson followed House's gaze, staring at the same point and seeing nothing but drop ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights until it dawned on him. Something he had seen more times than he'd liked to recall. His gaze drifted stealthily to the clenched fists balled up in the sheets beside each leg, tendons standing out like taught ropes extending from his knuckles to his wrist.

"You okay?" Wilson asked carefully, concern replacing the earlier sarcasm in his voice.

"Don't wanna talk about it right now," came the tight lipped response.

Dennis must have caught a glimpse of House's discomfort and took it as a hint. "It's a long trip back home," he explained before approaching the bed to offer House another firm handshake. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Take care of that leg."

House offered a sharp nod, the pain clearly affecting his already pathetic communication skills.

More handshakes were exchanged and the two guests turned to leave when Kutner came to a skidding halt in front of the open door, panting.

"Could...you...sign...this?" he managed to spill out between gasps as he thrust a new hat in front of the departing crew members. Wilson made a motion to take it out into the hallway, signaling with a shake of his head toward the tightly wound spring that was House.

Luckily, Kutner understood and stepped backward, allowing the others to exit House's room, the door sliding shut behind them. Wilson quickly thanked the two men for their kind gesture and exchanged the usual pleasantries before stepping back inside the now quiet room. The only sounds now came from House's ragged breaths and the rhythmic beeps of the monitors that gave away House's increased pulse rate and blood pressure.

"They're gone now. Take the morphine. You know you need it." Since when did House hold back on taking pain meds, especially when it was clear he truly needed them?

"I already did..." Wilson felt his heart skip a beat as he looked down at his friend who had become white as the sheets surrounding him. Maybe House had just administered the dose when he and the others had stepped out of the room and it hadn't taken affect yet.

"How long ago? Maybe it hasn't kicked in yet." Wilson knew IV morphine offered almost instantaneous relief. Even if it had just been a minute ago, House would be feeling something by now.

"It's... had time." House said, his voice strained.

"The leg?" He thought about that question for a split second, realizing it was stupid to ask what-

"Dumb...question..." Okay, it was a dumb question.

"You've got to help me out here." Wilson started rambling off possible suspects as he performed his own DDX. "New pain? Different pain? Muscular? Give me something to work with." Was it normal post-op pain that had gone unchecked for too long? Was there something else? Clot? Compartment Syndrome? God, he hoped not. He tried to run through all the options in his mental medical dictionary before making a potentially unnecessary call to Masterson.

"Hurts..."

"Big help. C'mon, House. How about a number?"

"I... hate... numbers." House kept a vice like grip around the top of his left thigh, looking like he was about to squeeze the life out of the rebellious limb. "Seven..." he finally breathed.

"I'm going to increase the dosage... for now. See if it helps." He unlocked the pump and increased the level of Morphine as House pressed the PCA button.

"You just want... me to admit...my love for you again." Wilson recalled the moment after he'd increased House's pain meds back then when House had uttered those three words. Of course, it was all about the drugs... at least that's what he kept telling himself.

A few tense moments passed as he watched House's features slowly relax, the grip on the blanket easing as he settled back into his pillow with a sigh.

"How long did you wait? You know, you're supposed to take the pain meds BEFORE the pain gets this bad. Otherwise it's harder to control-"

"Like this pointless lecture," as House obnoxiously depressed the button over and over again, the machine beeping its annoyance with him.

"Nice try. I'm not going anywhere."

House kept the button aimed at him, the machine beeping incessantly.

"Are you having fun?" Wilson raised his eyebrows, questioning House's childish antics. He was inwardly relieved the increase in pain meds seemed to be working, but a trickle of worry kept running through the stream of relief, refusing to allow him to completely relax.

"Doesn't seem to be working. You're still here." House slurred, eyeing the little handheld switch still directed toward Wilson, suspiciously staring at it as if it were some kind of malfunctioning weapon.

"Feeling better I assume?" Wilson asked, a bit amused.

He looked questioningly over at Wilson. "So..." He mumbled, half lidded eyes transfixed on Wilson's chest, "when did you go all Cindy Brady on me and call the Make a Wish Foundation? Last time I checked, I wasn't dying."

Wilson looked strangely at him. What the hell was he talking about?

"Go all what?"

"Oh, come on, Mr. Pop Culture reference guy. You're supposed to be the expert here." House's eyes closed lazily as he continued to ramble. Bobby meets...Joe Namath? Ring a bell?" House raised an eyebrow as he peeked one glazed eye toward Wilson. "Oh, forget it... you're lame," as he sighed contentedly, folding his hands over his stomach.

"Sorry, you've totally lost me with this one." Usually he was able to figure out House's little bizarre riddles and metaphors, but he honestly had no clue what House was talking about.

"Oh, come on... I know you watched the Brady Bunch when you were growing up. You've completely modeled your life after them..." House paused for what seemed like an hour before finishing his sentence, "minus the six rugrats and Alice."

"Before my time. Sorry."

"Let me guess..." House lifted a limp finger to the side of his head. "_Starsky and Hutch_ fan."

"Like you didn't watch it," Wilson responded defensively.

"Course I did." His eyes fluttered shut, the corner of his lip rising into a slight smirk. "What young, hormonal adolescent boy didn't watch the gayest cop team on television?"

"Only YOU would think they were gay."

"God, you're so naive. Only YOU would think they weren't." Another long pause. "You know they were totally doing it."

"I was eight!"

"No excuse. It was sooooo obvious," House countered, drawing out his vowels as he sank deeper into the mattress, words blending together. "That cool car was such aaan..."

Light snoring replaced the remaining words of his sentence as the drugs finally pulled him under, allowing him some much needed rest.

Wilson looked at his watch: 6:38pm. Hopefully, House would be out for a while and that would give him a chance to catch up on his own sleep. He'd stop and grab a bite to eat before heading home to pack some clothes and other items he would need if he was going to be helping out House at home for a while. He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be a long day.

--

**A/N #2: I've also almost finished the next chapter of Wired so hopefully you haven't forgotten about that one either. I feel so bad but it's tough with a full schedule and very little time to sit down and actually write. I will do my best to get the next chapter up ASAP. Thanks to all who have stuck by me and continue to read and review. **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This chapter was originally much longer, but I've decided to split it in half, otherwise you'd be waiting forever while I fight with the next part. Thanks again for all of the reviews, alerts and for just reading!**

**It's a bit angsty and emotional but please hang in there!**

**A big thanks to Magie05 again. I don't know where I'd be without her. Probably somewhere in chapter 5...Any and all mistakes are mine because, naturally, I got it back from Magie and proceeded to change about half the chapter...again.**

Chapter 10:

House began to stir, sights and sounds slowly emerging through his drug-addled brain. How long had he been out? He recalled Wilson giving him the extra morphine last...night? What time was it? Was it morning? His eyes had no interest in answering his question, remaining closed as he pulled himself out of the haze, a haze much thicker than what a simple dose of Morphine should have caused.

No. It felt more like waking from anesthesia; the heaviness of his limbs and the overall grogginess was evidence enough to jump to that conclusion. He had been there enough times before to recognize the post-anesthesia fog and disorientation he was experiencing.

They had taken him back into surgery. But for what? Maybe it was some kind of complication. The list of potential problems following a surgically repaired tibia ran through his head and none of them sounded good.

His left foot was burning. He knew that much. Not the typical burning he had felt initially following the surgery. This was different. The sensation reminded him of when he attended Michigan in the middle of winter. When his gym-shoes would get soaked through after trudging through the snow to get to class. His toes frozen almost to the point of numbness, creating the sensation as if they were on fire; the nerves misinterpreting the sensations of hot and cold.

Pins and needles ran up and down his lower leg like electricity through a circuit board. The more he concentrated on the uncomfortable feeling, he realized the right leg felt almost as annoying as his left, the electrical circuit running the entire gambit from his hip to his toes. It felt heavy, weighted down; like someone had left a refrigerator on it some time during the night, but he was sure he would have noticed if someone had actually done that. Maybe they'd given him another spinal block and it hadn't fully taken effect yet or it was just starting to wear off. But why wasn't the feeling bilateral?Wouldn't his entire left leg feel the same as the right? His mind kept trying to interpret the clues it was given.

He heard voices speaking softly, not to him, but to each other in some kind of deep discussion. He recognized Wilson's hushed voice talking to someone close by, the low murmuring punctuated by the constant beeps of the monitors in the background. Words were distant, garbled. He couldn't make out what was being said, not that he really cared at the moment. It was a struggle just to keep his concentration on staying conscious.

There was an overpowering smell of antiseptic in the room, burning his sinuses with each inhale. It was then that he felt the coolness of force-fed oxygen drying out his already desert-like nasal passages. Reaching a lazy hand to his face, he touched the thin tubing resting on his cheek. He couldn't recall when the supplementary oxygen was added. Maybe the drugs had suppressed his respiratory system and he had started to get a bit hypoxic. Not unusual considering the amount of morphine he'd had recently.

The deep baritone of Masterson filled his ears. What was _he_ doing here? Shouldn't he be home in his comfortable bed with his high-maintenance wife? Unless he was called back to the hospital for an emergency..._wake up, stupid_. Masterson would have performed the surgery on his leg. His own brain was still foggier than he thought.

_Think._

House recalled the escalating pain the night before and his own nagging concern over his recently repaired leg, afraid to say anything to Wilson or anyone else for that matter. Did he ever mention the additional pain to Wilson? He couldn't recall. Not that it mattered because Wilson had a built in pain monitor to detect other people's discomfort and would have picked up on the smallest little flinch or wince last night and went tattling to Masterson. But then Wilson wouldn't have called Masterson unless...

An uncomfortable feeling descended upon him; something more significant was going on, something important, yet he couldn't put a finger on it. A sense of _déjà vu_ washed over him as his eyes snapped open from the sudden surge of adrenaline.

He turned his head to the right, coming face-to-crotch with his favorite orthopedic surgeon.

"You're awake," said Masterson, dressed in blue scrubs with a surgery cap tied around his head. The sweat lines around the cap and speckles of blood on his scrubs told House all he needed to know.

"Surgery...again," House croaked, stating a fact more than asking a question. That explained why his bed was fully reclined, giving him an unpleasant view of his doctor.

"Mm-hmm. You know, it would be so much easier if you'd just learn to open your mouth and be honest with me when something doesn't feel right or is bothering you. You ARE a doctor..." He let that last line trail off, "Luckily, Wilson here gave me a call or you'd probably be in the morgue by now. That's twice in three days he's saved your life."

House scoffed at the comment as he looked over at Wilson, who was a few feet away busy staring at the floor, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. He looked like a teenager caught in the midst of a lie, guilt written across his face in capital letters.

"Yeah, yeah...so lucky to have my guardian angel watching over me." His words falling over each other like a row of dominoes. "Soooo?" he questioned, his right hand waving in circular motions and eyebrow raising in question as if to say 'out with it already'.

"Seems you developed compartment syndrome. Pretty bad case, too. The pressure in the muscle compartment had built up so high that it cut off the circulation to your foot. You had to have felt some numbness or tingling, but of course you refused to say anything as usual." He _had _felt a bit of numbness but wrote it off as the lingering effects from the spinal block.

"Skip the lecture. Fasciotomy?" He knew slicing his leg open would be a necessity to relieve the pressure in the muscle compartments and allow circulation to return. No wonder his leg felt so odd. It would be a long recovery which also meant an extended hospital stay and a few very nasty scars...like he didn't have his fair share already. Possible skin grafts if the skin didn't close properly after the swelling subsided.

Great. Just what he needed. One minute he's enjoying himself, watching Gravedigger kick ass, the next minute he's flat on his back, dealing with more crap thrown his direction. Well, at least he'd make a full recovery...eventually.

As he imagined what he was in for recovery wise, he noticed Masterson's reluctancy to answer the question.

"Well?" he urged.

Masterson hesitated before meeting House's questioning gaze. "I'm sorry, Greg. There was nothing we could do."

House's heart skipped a beat. Wait. What did he mean there was nothing he could do? What was he saying? There was plenty he could do. His body tensed and his mouth couldn't form the words to ask the question. He stared at Masterson in shock, waiting for further explanation.

Masterson continued, having a difficult time making eye contact. "By the time I opened you up, there was already too much necrosis...too much damage. It was our only option." Another pause. "Wilson approved the procedure. Signed the consent forms."

"Whoa...wait...w...what procedure?" He knew his foot was still there. The pain alone told him that. He glanced over at Wilson suspiciously, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"I had to do it, Greg," Wilson quietly added from his corner of the room, keeping his gaze fixed to the floor.

_Do what? And why is he calling me Greg?_

Wilson's interest in the floor never strayed. He remained a veritable statue with arms crossed in front of him, his lips pursed so tightly their color had vanished.

Masterson answered for the unresponsive Wilson. "We had to take the leg...just below the knee, Greg." With those words, House's entire world collapsed around him. Suddenly, it was difficult to speak. To think. To breathe.

"No...no..." House stumbled over the words. This wasn't real. This couldn't be happening. "I...no. I can feel it. My foot...it's there...it's itching and burning."

"It's gone, Greg," Wilson added, showing no emotion as he kept talking to the floor, the wall, the IV stand...anywhere else but to House. "What you're feeling is phantom pain."

"No... no, it's not!" House fumbled for the bed controls and pressed the button to raise the bed. He had to see for himself. End this little prank. "And stop calling me Greg!"

It was a joke. It had to be. A very nasty, cruel joke that he'd never let Wilson live down. House realized he'd pulled some pretty harsh pranks on him in the past, but this wasn't amusing at all. Not in the slightest. Revenge tactics were already being planned in the back of his mind.

"Greg, you should try to relax," Wilson said in a patronizing tone, finally raising his head to meet House's frightened eyes. "Everything's going to be just fine."

"No, it's not! It's MY damn leg!" The head of the bed crept its way upward, the hum of the bed's electric motor the only sound in the tension-filled room.

The two men started towards House's bed, arms outstretched to offer their support.

"Stay the hell away from me," House warned, the anxiety evident in his shaking voice. Both men froze in their tracks. "Wilson, I swear, if this is some kind of cruel joke..." He let the words trail off, leaving Wilson's imagination to fill in the blanks.

His upper body slowly rose until the foot of the bed crept into view over the horizon of the pale green blanket spread over him. He looked for the tenting of the blanket where his foot should be, anything interrupting the smoothness in front of him, but there was nothing. Nothing but flat mattress under the green covers that seemed to stretch for miles. His eyes followed the even surface until the blanket rose up slightly just below where his knee rested under the cover.

Oh, God. It was gone. Images of his bleak future flashed in front of his eyes: he saw himself in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, never walking again, simple tasks becoming monumental efforts. The curious stares, the unwanted pity... the grim fact that he would never be whole again.

His gaze drifted to the other side of the bed when, to his horror, he noticed how the entire end of the bed looked untouched, freshly made. Not only was his left foot missing, there was no sign of his right leg. Nothing, except for an occasional ripple in the covers until he reached the top half of his thigh where the blanket rose in a gentle incline up to his hip.

He ripped back the covers, still hoping this was all a hoax, expecting to see maybe one of those trick beds where his feet were actually under the mattress, creating the sick illusion in front of him. But what he saw sickened him, the blunted remains of his legs, both heavily wrapped with compression bandages sticking out from under his gown.

Every emotion descended on him at once. Shock, grief, fear, sadness...anger. "What the hell have you done?" he cried, burying his face in shaking hands. "How could you do this to me?"

Wilson looked up at him, remaining surprisingly calm. "What? I thought you'd be happy? Now the pain will be gone. That's what you've always wanted, right?"

Masterson's voice chimed in, "I figured since we were in there, we might as well take care of both problems. You know, kill two birds with one stone," Masterson added nonchalantly. "You've always called yourself a cripple anyway. Now it's legit." An evil grin played across his lips.

Wilson looked back down at his own feet when House finally realized, to his shock and dismay, what Wilson had been staring at.

"You know what the best part is?" Wilson asked, not waiting for an answer, "I get to have all of your cool shoes now," he grinned like a child as he wiggled his toes in the pair of black and silver Nikes on his feet, "since you won't be needing them anymore."

"NO! They're mine!" He tried to push himself on to his elbows, tried to find some kind of leverage to sit upright but it was hopeless. "How could you?"

A strong arm clamped onto his shoulder, pinning him against the mattress. "Just calm down. Everything's going to be just fine." Masterson's voice boomed in his ears.

"Get the fuck away from me!" House fought back with everything he had, arms flailing as he tried to fend off the insane butcher looming over him.

"Dr. House!" Masterson's voice seemed to raise three octaves, suddenly sounding decidedly female. "We need you to calm down!"

House's eyes snapped open in confusion, staring face to face with a blonde haired nurse. Her thin pink scrub-clad arm was gripping his left shoulder firmly but gently. No sign of Wilson or Masterson anywhere in sight. He quickly pushed himself up on to his elbows to take in the sight of both legs, still relatively intact. The most important factor being that they were both still attached to the rest of his body; his immobilized left leg resting on two pillows. His right foot created a miniature peak of blanket at the end of the bed, looking like Mount Everest to his relieved eyes.

He collapsed back with a heavy sigh, panting at the ceiling, his face red from exertion. If someone had walked in at that moment, they might have assumed he'd just had an orgasm of mass proportions.

"You were having a nightmare," the nurse cooed softly once she realized House was awake and aware. He wondered how much she had heard, what he might've said and didn't know if he should feel totally humiliated by his emotional display in front of her or immensely relieved to still be fully intact.

Along with the awareness came the return of the pain. The same pain that probably prompted the eerily lifelike dream he'd just experienced. It was the brain's way of responding to the body's request for attention, even in the middle of REM sleep. Like dreaming about being shot in the arm and waking up finding your arm asleep, tucked under your pillow.

He wiped his sweat-soaked forehead with a trembling hand as his breathing evened out. That dream hadn't haunted him in years, but the recent trauma had dredged up old familiar feelings of helplessness and the nearly irrational fear of losing his leg that he'd felt since the 'A' word was first suggested by Cuddy so many years ago.

"How's the pain?" His focus snapped back to the nurse fumbling with his left hand when he felt something clip onto his pointer finger...ahh, pulse ox. Must have knocked it loose during his ridiculous psych patient freak show act. Hopefully he hadn't done anything too overly embarrassing in front of Nurse Pinkscrubs that could be used against him. He watched her busily check the monitors and his catheter (which was an embarrassment in and of itself).

With the nurse distracted, he reached up quickly to wipe his cheeks with the back of a hand, removing any remaining evidence of his recent outburst. Last thing he needed was a damaged reputation because of a few rogue tears.

As his hand ran over his cheeks, his fingers tangled slightly with plastic tubing snaking under his nose. So, he WAS put on oxygen some time during the night. That part was real but for the life of him couldn't recall when it happened. It was still odd how dreams had a way of crossing the plane of the subconscious over to reality, merging the two together into one scary ass nightmare.

Casting a quick glance at the monitor, he noticed his SATs were at 97 WITH the oxygen.

Why did all the best drugs have to come with such lousy side effects? The pain was eased, but then you got the suppressed respiratory system, lack of appetite, constipation, nausea...addiction.

Returning to the nurse's question, he answered sharply, "The pain is doing just fine. I, on the other hand, feel like crap." She stared at him as if he'd grown another head. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Yes, I would like more pain medication," he answered, enunciating each word as if speaking to an automated phone system.

She administered the extra dose of morphine with a sneer before marching out of the room muttering something about how they were right and the word 'ass' was heard as she kept mumbling to herself as the door slid shut.

Peace and quiet again. Just how he preferred it. But the images from the nightmare were still fresh in his subconscious, burned like a brand on his mind, not letting go as it and the drugs battled for the rights to his body. He felt the warmth in his muscles as the morphine filled his veins, but it wasn't enough to block the images of severed legs, evil orthopedic surgeons or traitorous best friends.

The clock on the wall read 2:15. Hmmm. There was no way he'd be falling back to sleep any time soon; not with the amount of adrenaline still racing through his system. Maybe he could flip on the TV and watch boring infomercials or CNN and hear about every depressing event happening in the world today.

Or maybe he'd opt for the Weather Channel. It wasn't New Yankee Workshop, but it was still full of mindless entertainment, especially during hurricane season. It was early in the tropical season, but maybe he'd get lucky and find some storm brewing in the south Atlantic. Pressing the remote, he scanned through the other mindless drivel until he caught the familiar blue emblem in the corner of the screen.

Bingo.

The reporter was standing outside, horizontal raindrops plastering his blue jacket and hood against his body as he described the chaos around him as if it wasn't obvious enough as he struggled to stay on his feet when a blast of 100mph wind nearly swept him off his feet. Nothing like watching an idiot getting battered and blown across a parking lot in the middle of a hurricane.

_Aren't you supposed to evacuate when a storm is about to destroy everything in its path?_ he thought as the camera scanned palm trees in the background, bowing to the ground from the force of the winds. It was amazing how flexible those trees were, bending almost in half but refusing to break. If only the human body was as resilient...

The camera focused back on the reporter who was shielding his face with his own arm as the wind driven rain pelted him unremittingly. House idly wondered what would possess someone to purposely put themselves in harm's way like that or if they even had a choice in the matter. Maybe it was one of those contract things. I will put myself in mortal danger for the good of Nielsen. Anything for ratings. Who didn't love a good 'moron in a storm' story?

He sunk back into the pillows and finally dozed off to the sound of Jim Cantore yelling something inaudible at the camera amongst the din of howling winds and driving rain.

**A/N: Sorry if the beginning segment was a big freaky. It's something that popped into my head and I went with it. I also thought would be something that would plague House since he seems to have some kind of irrational fear about amputation. The opening scene from Top Secret also sent me this direction.**


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I know this chapter is a bit short, but once again, it turned into something much longer than originally anticipated. This bit may be a bit slow but I promise it'll pick up soon.

Between writer's block and the inability to find the time to get in front of my laptop, it's been too long between chapters...again.

Thanks for all the comments and I'm glad the last chapter had you going for a while. It was fun to write. This chapter on the other hand...ugh. Nobody ever said this was easy.

A big thanks to Magie05 once again. Any and all mistakes are mine, or maybe my three year old's, who decided he wanted to type letters in my story. I hope I found them all...

Chapter 11

He was sitting in bed, holding the ancient-looking hospital telephone on his lap, contemplating a simple phone call.

He picked up the receiver and held it tight.

The images from the previous twelve hours flashed through his mind in a blur. The visit from Dennis Anderson was a shocker in the least, almost giving him a heart attack (damn monitor) at the sheer shock of seeing The Man standing in his hospital room. That had been the highlight of his day... hell, it was the highlight of his month.

But throughout the Gravedigger crew's visit, the pain had slowly escalated, preventing him from focusing on anything else but the rhythm of his heartbeat pounding out a constant beat in his leg, putting a damper on what had been a relatively enjoyable evening. He was no longer able to hide his discomfort, especially from the ever-wary Wilson who had finally knocked him out with enough Morphine to make him not only forget about the pain, but also his own name.

The had returned again sometime in the middle of the night. He remembered blindly pushing the PCA button, waiting for the relief that never came, unable, or maybe unwilling, to do no more than move his thumb.

Within a few minutes someone had entered his room, a nurse he assumed judging by the unfamiliar female voice, who had asked him a few questions. He must have responded correctly, because moments later he had felt the warmth of the morphine soothe his angry nerves, gently coaxing them, and eventually, him back to sleep.

Then there was The Nightmare, version 2.0 that had scared the living shit out of him...followed shortly by some other nurse shaking him out of his personal hell.

That same nurse...at least he thought it was the same one (he couldn't keep track of one from another) had come in at some ridiculous hour and had taken his vitals _again. _ The latest intrusion had been the third disturbance of the night. It was a miracle anyone ever got any sleep in this place.

Since she had already woken him up, he had her check the pulses in his left foot just to be sure they were still there. That dream had shaken him up more than he would have liked to admit. She reassured him that the pulses were strong and he should go back to sleep and stop worrying, attempting to placate him with useless babble about how they were there to take care of him and he was in good hands.

Right. History begged to differ.

After the nurse had left, he lay there, wide awake, blinking at the odd shapes the hall lights were making on the drop panel ceiling. Unable to fall asleep, he kept running the dream over and over in his head. Was it just a dream or was he missing something? Was his subconscious trying to give him that single clue to prevent another disaster?

He'd been lying there for what felt like hours, weighing his options. Should he or shouldn't he call Masterson? That was the simple question that kept gnawing at his insides. The list of pros and cons growing ever longer as he stared at the buttons on the phone. He didn't want to become one of those loser clinic patients who annoyed the hell out of him, demanding to see a doctor for a hang nail or a simple sniffle. It was probably nothing, just normal post op discomfort poorly controlled by insufficient pain meds...but that damn nightmare wouldn't leave him alone.

House quickly dialed Masterson's number before he could change his mind for the umpteenth time.

"Doctor Masterson," came the abrupt but professional reply.

"It's Monday morning. Do you know where your daughter is?" House said in a haunting voice.

"As a matter of fact I do, and she's far away from you, _House_," he replied, emphasizing his name. House loved to bug Masterson about his hot nineteen-year-old daughter. "And what do I owe the pleasure of this call? I'm sure it wasn't just to annoy me about my daughter...but then you _would _do something like that."

"I need a reason? Maybe I just wanted to say hi." He reached under the covers and began to fiddle with the tubing taped to the inside of his right leg while cradling the phone against his right cheek. It was probably not the most hygienic act to be performing when on the phone but he couldn't stand the itching and burning any more. If he timed it right, he'd be free of all leads and tubes before Masterson made it to his room.

"Right. You're calling me to see how my morning is going." There was a pause, then Masterson's tone became more serious. "Something bothering you?"

"You mean besides the skyrocketing fuel prices, global warming and polar bears losing their habitat?" House's tone quieted as he dropped the charade. "You know how you've always bugged me to tell you when something didn't feel right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, I'm telling you."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure. Just doesn't feel...right. " House's voice sounded quiet, coming out as a low grumble.

"So, you've finally decided to open your mouth when something's bothering you? Why the change of heart?"

How was he supposed to answer that? 'I had this freaky nightmare that scared the crap out of me and you were this evil butcher who chopped off both my legs for kicks and Wilson stole all my shoes' probably wouldn't be the best reply.

"I...it...just get in here, please."

"Wait. Did you just say 'please'? Wow, something either scared the hell out of you or you hit your head or you've learned to accept-"

"Enough of the psychoanalysis," House interrupted, "are you going to come up here and check my damn leg or not? I'm sure I could find-"

The door slid open and he looked up in surprise to see Masterson entering his room, cell phone plastered to his ear.

"Wow. Now THAT'S impressive service. Do you like have one of those cool Star Trek transporter things?" House asked, the receiver still wedged between his left ear and shoulder, his hands still occupied under the sheets as he worked to free himself from the tether still holding him hostage.

"I was already on my way here and thought I'd surprise you," Masterson replied, snapping his cell phone shut as a sign for House to hang up.

"You just wanted to catch me in the middle of doing something embarrassing...which wouldn't be totally incorrect." House answered, pulling his left hand out from under the blankets. "You really do have impeccable timing. Like a sixth sense." The receiver was pushing against his jaw and his neck was starting to get a bit stiff from holding it at an awkward angle. "You mind?" he motioned with his eyes toward the receiver as his hands continued to work their magic with the Foley. "Hands are a little busy, if you know what I mean," STOP HERE So why _are_ you here?"

"You called _me_." Masterson answered, taking the hand-piece from House's shoulder and placing it back on the cradle still sitting in House's lap.

"I called you thirty seconds ago and now you're standing two feet in front of me." Almost got it... "Either you're some kind of psychic and knew I was gonna call or you were already heading up here on your own volition," eyeing Masterson suspiciously as he continued to pull the tubing out of his urethra, the uncomfortable burning causing him to squirm, "or someone opened his big mouth."

"I happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and see how you were doing."

"Riiiiight. And I want to run the New York Marathon. Not happening." House sent a scrutinizing eye Masterson's direction. Finally, he felt the end of the catheter slip out the end of his now happy penis.

"Ahhhh, freedom." The urge to urinate was overpowering, but his bladder was empty and the discomfort would slowly subside over time.

"God. Can't you get a nurse to do that?" Masterson asked as the rubber tubing emerged from under the covers to House's right and landed on the floor with a _plop_. "It's leaking on the floor."

"Oh, relax. It's sterile. And besides, that's what nurses are for." Contradicting himself, he then asked for some hand sanitizer from the bathroom. Masterson complied and House rubbed his hands together vigorously as Masterson continued their conversation.

"I'm sure the nurses would beg to differ." The giant of a man walked around to House's left and grabbed the edge of the blanket that had migrated partially on to House's injured leg. "Is it safe yet?"

"Yes, the family jewels are safely stowed away." Currently his body was behaving itself, relatively peaceful, but that was about to change if Dr. I-need-to-take-a-look-and-manhandle-your-leg-until-you're-screaming had anything to do with it. How_ did_ Masterson get there so damn fast?

Quickly, he went from contemplation to self-preservation as a large hand wrapped around his heavily bandaged ankle, the only part of his lower leg that had somehow remained intact. Odd how so many small fragile bones could survive an impact like he had experienced yet the bones that normally supported most of his weight snapped like a couple of cheap toothpicks. A simple answer: physics.

A breath caught in his throat as his leg was lifted off the pillow and Masterson started unwinding the elastic bandage holding everything in place.

"You were already heading up here...which means..." House was still trying to solve the puzzle as to how Masterson had teleported himself to his room in the blink of an eye. Then it dawned on him.

Of course.

"Let me guess," he exhaled through clenched teeth. "Wilson."

"Wilson what?"

"Called you." He felt the pressure on his leg ease as the last bit of elastic wrap was removed. "Couldn't help himself."

"He was just concerned," Masterson explained as he set the mass of loose elastic bandage on the bed.

House rolled his eyes in response. "That's his middle name. James 'I'm insecure about myself so I need to control everyone else's lives' Wilson." He didn't dare try to move the exposed leg, afraid to even look at it.

"Whatever his name is, he said you needed some extra pain relief last night."

"Why would that surprise you? The original dosage was pretty conservative. You know my tolerance for opiates..." letting the sentence trail off. Masterson was well aware of his history.

Masterson lowered his foot gently back on the pillow and crouched down to take a closer look. House hesitantly followed the other doctor's gaze to his lower leg. The colors of the rainbow were represented in shades of red, purple, blue, black and even some greens and yellows mixed in there. His ankle had disappeared due to the swelling, making his lower leg look more like a giant uncooked bratwurst.

From his vantage point, he could see the incisions Masterson had made: several small ones on the outside of his calf near his ankle and knee, another on the outside of his foot and one larger one running horizontal across his knee where the titanium rod had been inserted.

"The incisions look good," Masterson hesitated for a second, "but there's more swelling than I'd like to see."

"You are _not _keeping me here another day. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a doctor, too. There's no infection, no discharge, no fever. I'm going home...today."

"Well, guess what, I'm YOUR doctor," Masterson added, "and I know you too well. You'll leave here with Wilson and do your best to piss him off so he leaves. Then you'll try to do too much on your own and do something stupid, fall and break something else...hopefully not your other leg or an arm. That would be fun, wouldn't it? Having to completely rely on another human being to do the simplest tasks like getting dressed or taking a piss." The doctor touched the top of House's foot, checking for pulses as he lectured, "Because I know how much you would love having someone help aim the hose while you douse the fire."

House rolled his eyes, "Oh, don't get so dramatic. You're as bad as Wilson. And you _can_ say the word 'penis' in front of me. This isn't grade school."

"No, it's more like _pre_-school." There was the sound of a package being torn open and Masterson pivoted around, syringe in hand. House caught a glimpse of the other supplies laying on the tray, immediately aware of what Masterson had planned.

"Is that really necessary?" It wasn't the procedure itself he was afraid of, he dealt with more pain on a daily basis. It was what the test might reveal that had his insides tied up in knots.

"It is if you want to possibly go home today," Masterson continued assembling the pressure gauge to the syringe, then set it aside.

"A little Lidocaine first." He swabbed an area on the front of his leg and slid the injected the anesthetic.

House barely felt the needle enter his skin as he watched his colleague work.

After the anesthetic took effect, Masterson picked up the device and removed the cover from the 6-inch long needle. "You know how this works. Any questions before I start?"

" Ummm, yeah. Is your daughter available Friday night?"

The sudden sharp stab from the large needle answered his question as Masterson chose to respond with physical violence.

"Ow!"

"Shut up, I'm working."

With tight lips and clenched fists, House watched and waited to hear the results. He couldn't help but stare at the gauge in Masterson's hands, as if he could lower the numbers by using The Force. It was worth a try.

"Twenty-five," was all Masterson had to say as House started to breathe again. The danger zone was 30 mmHg of pressure or higher, which meant no fasciotomy, no surgery. He could go home. He silently thanked Yoda , Obi Wan or whoever had been instrumental in keeping the numbers down.

"Great!" House said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. "Sign the release papers and let me out of here."

"Not so fast." Masterson was already busy rewrapping House's leg. "I know you too well. You're not going anywhere until you can prove to me that you can function on your own."

"Oh, come on!" He argued, "You know Wilson's gonna be fluttering around me like goddamn Tinkerbell. He lives for this stuff."

"I'm still trying to figure out why he'd want to subject himself to that kind of torture. I feel for him."

"What about ME? You've never had to live with the guy before. Did you know he blow-dries his hair?"

"And?"

House looked suspiciously back at his doctor. "No! You're supposed to laugh, make fun of him, scorn him. Instead you're siding with him? You disappoint me. Come on, you're an ex-football player for God's sakes. Pretty soon you and Wilson will be going to get spa treatments together."

"Just because you lack any personal hygiene skills..." The other doctor placed his hands on his hips in an all-too-familiar pose. "Maybe you should take some lessons from your friend."

"Looks like you already are. Just get me out of this damn bed and I'll let you comb my hair or something." House had already started pushing the rolling tray out of the way.

"You really think you're ready?"

"I'm not sure. Only if you're gentle. You may need to use a brush at first...Oh! You mean ready to get out of here and go home? Nah, I'd rather stay here until I catch MRSA or some other antibiotic-resistant mutated form of staph and die a slow painful death." He pushed himself into a sitting position and took hold of the IV running into his hand and fiddled with the connection.

"Hang on...drama queen." The orthopedic doctor muttered under his breath as he strode out into the hallway with a swish of the sliding glass door, leaving House impatiently waiting to move his sore ass out of bed and into another seat.

Masterson returned, pushing a black wheelchair and parked it next to the bed. He lowered the right side bed rail and pushed the now-disconnected IV pole out of the way to give House plenty of room to negotiate himself into the chair.

The chair loomed two feet to his right. All he had to do was lift his butt, slide it across the bed and into the chair, move the right leg, move the left leg. Should be easy. If he couldn't do this, he should have Wilson pack up his things and move him to that retirement home around the corner where all the old geezers sit around in wheelchairs all day, staring at the ground. He imagined himself sitting out on the terrace, the lame elevator music lulling him into a catatonic state while the other invalids took their dentures out of their mouths and picked out the remnants of the shredded wheat they'd had for breakfast.

It was now or never.

House removed the blankets and arranged his gown to cover his marred right thigh. He knew Masterson had seen it more times than he could count but it didn't mean he needed to put it on display. The damaged quads had been relatively tame since he was hospitalized, probably due to a combination of good drugs and bed rest, giving his overtaxed muscles a much-needed break. But that was about to change as he prepared to wake the sleeping beast that was his right leg.

"Okay. The easiest way to do this is to get your good leg over to the chair first."

"I don't _have _a good leg." House had already started pushing himself into a more upright position, scooting his rear towards the edge of the bed. His left leg was already protesting the slight movement as he continued his tight-lipped conversation, "My scale of goodness has dropped dramatically in the last few days. My 'good' leg has now become the 'bad' leg, which now makes my 'bad' leg the 'good' leg, hence, totally lowering my definition of 'good' to more like 'less sucky'."

"The one that's not injured."

House looked up at Masterson from under knitted eyebrows.

"Okay, the leg that sucks less," the Masterson responded, sounding a bit exasperated as he moved behind the wheelchair to play spotter while House got to demonstrate his acrobatic technique of "how to get into a wheelchair with two useless legs 101."

"Scoot to the edge of the bed...right, like that...I'm sure you remember some of this from...last time." Masterson's tone indicated he really didn't want to bring up House's prior wheelchair use during his recovery from the infarction and follow up surgery, but the experience would be useful.

_Just like riding a bike, _he thought. Even though he'd forgotten what it was like to actually pedal a real bicycle.

The bet he had made with Cuddy and the week he spent in the wheelchair to regain his prime parking space helped solidify his confidence in using the wheelchair. Those skills returned after just a few minutes rolling around the halls of the hospital.

_This was so much easier when I had one good leg, _he thought as his arms trembled from the exertion of lifting his body to the edge of the bed, his legs feeling like two-ton anchors dragging across the ocean floor.

At the height of House's balancing act, Wilson decided to show his face.

"Great. An audience..." House muttered.

"Doctor Wilson. So nice of you to join us." Masterson chimed in, greeting him with a quick hand shake. "Could you possibly give us a hand and stand over here?" motioning toward the right side of the chair, "just in case."

"In case what?" Wilson asked, moving into position.

"Just in case I decide to take a header, you can throw yourself in front of me and break my fall," came House's response as he balanced on the edge of the bed.

"My goal in life," came Wilson's sarcastic reply.

House peaked over his shoulder at Masterson and Wilson to his right. "You _better_ not let me fall on my ass."

"_Moi_?" Wilson replied innocently, pointing to his own chest, "I would never think of doing something like that."

--

Magie05 has come to the conclusion that Wilson speaks French since he attended college in Canada. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Here's another chapter for all of you patient readers. I can't thank you all enough for your kind reviews. Also, thanks to Magie05 for putting up with me. **

Chapter 12

"Payback's a bitch. Just remember that," House threatened as he prepared to swing himself into the awaiting wheelchair.

"You're right. It is. And I still owe you big time," Wilson retorted.

"For what?"

"Hmmm." Wilson wielded a thinking man's pose. "Where do I start?"

Ignoring Wilson's idle threat, House looked back at the giant of a doctor looming over his shoulder.

"You've got the wheels locked, right?" House stammered as his hands remained firmly planted next to his hips. He didn't remember being this stressed over a simple wheelchair transfer, but then again he didn't remember ever having to do this with two useless legs, either.

Images came to mind of the chair shooting out from under him, throwing him to the floor like a discarded rag doll. Then he'd have to deal with the complete humiliation of ending up in a heap on the floor, unable to pick himself up, ending up like one of those ancient invalids from that bad infomercial: "I've fallen and I can't get up."

"Brakes are on. I've got it," Masterson reassured him with a wiggle of the chair, "Now push up and swing your rear into the chair."

Yeah, sure. He wasn't the one sitting here, shaking like a goddamn leaf, feeling about as useless as a... he couldn't think of a metaphor that came close to how pathetic he was feeling right now.

Trying to gain some leverage, he instinctively pushed with his right leg, instantly regretting it as pain shot through his thigh, setting off fireworks throughout the damaged muscle.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He gasped through clenched teeth as Wilson made a lunge for him. "No...don't! Just...let me do it." He had to do it, especially with Masterson staring over him like a vulture ready to feed on his carcass as soon as his ass landed on the cold tile floor.

Stealing a move from a gymnast's pommel horse routine, House slammed his right hand on the right armrest of the chair, his left hand followed onto the other armrest as he plopped into the seat with a groan.

His hands grasped his right leg under his thigh, swung it off the bed and lowered it on the footrest, the metal cold against his bare foot. He bent over to prop up the leg rest, thankful for his long arms and decent flexibility to be able to reach that low. The least Masterson could have done was prop up the damn leg rest for him.

Sliding one hand under his left leg while the other grasped one of the thick Velcro straps on the brace, he swung it smoothly and swiftly onto the raised footrest with a grunt. He eased it down gently onto the large vinyl covered pad.

Surprisingly, the process was quicker than he expected and he succeeded with no more than a few twinges of discomfort. Nothing a Vicodin or so couldn't handle... or a hefty dose of morphine.

"Piece of cake," House remarked with an air of smugness, smirking up at the other two doctors as his tongue ran over his lower lip in triumph.

"I can't believe you just said that." Wilson shook his head in disbelief.

"Would you prefer 'easy as pie, a can of corn, like a hot knife through butter'?"

"I meant that you thought it was... forget it," Wilson replied, raising his hands in defeat. Masterson's shoulders shook as a muffled snicker escaped through his nose.

"How bout 'a walk in the park'...no...forget that last one...scratch that." House grabbed the hand rims and prepared to propel himself...somewhere. Anywhere but stuck in this room another minute. "Where to?" House asked, rolling back and forth like an overeager racehorse in the starting gate.

"Back into bed." Masterson motioned with a wave of his hand.

"What? Why?"

"I want to see you get yourself back into bed. Getting in the chair was half the test, getting out is the other half."

"I haven't studied for that part yet." He spun his head to face Wilson. "Can I cheat off you?"

Masterson's eyes never wavered as his arms crossed in front of him, "C'mon. Show me."

"Oh, come on!" House whined, trying to inch his way stealthily toward the door before Wilson or Masterson caught on to his attempted to block his escape route. "I've proven I can do this all by myself like a big boy. Now just grab that little paper with discharge orders and scribble your signature on it and I'll be on my way."

Too late. Masterson's large frame occupied the space between his sterile prison and freedom. "The longer you sit here and try to finagle your way out of this, the longer you get to spend in this hospital."

House rolled up to the six-foot-plus ex-lineman and stared up at the menacing figure. He had to admit, Masterson looked much more intimidating from this angle. He looked up with angelic eyes and batted them for effect. "Does that mean I'm grounded, daddy?" his voice rising an octave.

"Yes, until you can prove you can do this. I'm not letting you go home without knowing you'll be able to function on your own."

"Oh, please. You know Wilson won't let me out of his sight." House surrendered and wheeled himself back toward the bed.

"Try me," Wilson added, following House to the side of the bed to act as his safety net, no doubt.

"I know you. You'll get me home, change me, feed me, tuck me into bed like the little rugrat you never had. You'll keep asking me about twenty times if I'm okay. Then you'll reluctantly let yourself out, go back to your hotel room and lie awake, worried if I somehow ended up on the floor with a cracked skull or unconscious from too much Vicodin." House had already started lifting his feet one at a time back onto the bed, "then you'll get back in your car in the middle of the night and come back to check on me because you couldn't live with yourself if something happened to me after you left me all by myself."

"Okay. Then how about this scenario," Wilson answered curtly, "I'll stop in front of your place, kick you out the door and leave you on the goddamn sidewalk to drag your own sorry ass to your front door."

"You wouldn't even do that to your ex-ex mother-in-law, Beetlejuice."

"Beatrice," Wilson corrected with fire in his eyes.

"Whatever. Maybe it was the hair...or her voice. Always reminded me of Beetlejuice."

With that, House heaved himself out of the chair once again and nearly rolled onto the bed, landing on his left side.

Grimacing, he bit back a yelp as his left leg rolled onto its side, pain engulfing him from knee to toes.

He lay on his side a few moments, face buried in the pillow as his breathing evened out. It was probably a good idea to wait until the pain subsided enough before he jarred anything else that would send him to the ceiling. Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be the piece of cake he insisted it was.

"You okay?" There it was. The ever-present voice of concern.

"See? Told you. Just can't...help himself. It's like some kind of disorder. He's a pathological carer," House breathed out as he rolled onto his back, got up on his elbows and sat up, rearranging his legs into some kind of orderly fashion. He might as well have been a paraplegic, considering how useless his lower body was at the moment. At least then it wouldn't hurt like hell every time he made a wrong move.

"Yeah, and you're just the picture of mental health." Wilson stood back and watched House struggle with his uncooperative limbs.

Masterson eyed the exchange with an amused smirk on his face. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Too long..." Wilson sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Well?" House sat up, supporting his weight on the palms of his hands, "Do I pass?" He wasn't about to acknowledge that he was nearly screaming from the lack of pain meds to soothe his angry nerves. There had to be some Vicodin in his pants from Saturday, now if he only knew where his clothes were...

"Yes, you pass. Are you sure you want to go home with him?" indicating Wilson with a thumb, "I'm not sure you'd survive the trip right now."

His comment gained him two glares. "I'll go get the discharge papers."

"Just gimme my clothes," House demanded, waggling his fingers.

Wilson was the last person he worried about ever hurting him. The man was a total pushover and was still harboring some guilt from this whole incident. Right now he could probably ask Wilson to give him a foot massage and he'd do it.

Wilson threw open the bureau drawer. The sound of cheap pressboard slammed against the stops, preventing the drawer from sailing across the room. House would've found it amusing to see it fall out and onto Wilson's foot, but then he'd be even more pissed off and that might not be a good-

House's thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of a wince from Wilson. He had tried to picked up the bag with his right hand, obviously in some kind of discomfort, then quickly switched it to his left hand, wiping away any indications from his face that something was wrong.

House had forgotten about that arm problem during the previous night, blaming his poor memory on his own pain and the drugs. He felt a slight twinge of...was that guilt? No. Not guilt. Maybe it was empathy. No, it wasn't that either. Something was twisting his insides into a knot. Maybe it was the rubber eggs and the hockey puck doubling as a sausage patty he had for breakfast. The unfamiliar feelings were swept aside and he returned to the subject at hand. "Where are my-"

Suddenly, he had a close-up view of the red leaves of the Princeton-Plainsboro logo as the plastic bag hit him on the side of his face. His hand shot up and caught the bag as it slid down his chest. "Thanks," he grumbled as the drawer to his right was slammed shut with a ithwack/i.

The bag was turned upside down and the clothing rained into his lap, a cloud of dust billowing up from the filthy remains of his run-in with Gravedigger.

He fished through the pile and grabbed some denim as he searched for a pocket only to realize it was part of one of his pant legs. The other three pieces of material that had once been his jeans lay scattered amongst his T-shirt, socks and button down shirt which had all somehow remained intact.

Rummaging through the multicolored pile, he listened for the familiar rattle of the pill bottle but heard nothing but the soft rustle of fabric on fabric. Dammit. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to ask Wilson for a prescription. The man was trying to stare holes through the top of his head right now as it was.

A piece of black cotton caught his attention. He picked up what remained of his boxer briefs and held them between his finger and thumb, imagining how close the scissors had come to his groin. Way too close for comfort.

"Since Edward Scissorhands had his way with my clothes, I'm gonna need some pants." He hadn't even considered the fact that there was no way he'd get a pair of jeans around his left leg right now.

Wilson volunteered himself, a scowl on his face as he turned to leave. "Oh, please. Allow me."

"No pink!" House yelled after him as the door slid shut with authority.

"I believe I've seen you wear pink before."

"That was a shirt, not pants. Save the pink pants for the extras in the next Wham! video." Masterson took the bag of clothes from House and went to set them back on top of the bureau when he saw the R/C Gravedigger sitting next to the flowers from Kutner.

"Cute toy," Masterson noted as he put the bag back in the drawer.

"It's NOT a toy. It's a 1/12th scale remote controlled replica of Gravedigger given to me personally by Dennis Anderson and no, you can't play with it."

"Wilson told me about your special visitor last night."

"Did he also tell you how he turned into a stuttering idiot in front of Dennis?"

"First name basis, huh? No, but he did tell me how you turned into a, how did he put it? A 'total fangirl'."

"Did not!" He defended himself while he struggled with his T-shirt, making sure not to snag the disconnected IV cannula taped to his left hand or the sutures on his forehead. "He must've been talking about Kutner's uncanny ability to be a total moron when in the presence of greatness. Hmmm, must be why he turns into a total fuck-up around me."

Masterson slowly walked toward the foot of the bed, bending to examine the bottom of House's foot. "So, what's this?"

"The guy wouldn't leave until I let him sign something. You know how those big stars are, they run you over then think they can make up for it by scribbling their name somewhere." He wasn't about to tell Masterson how he was going to put that signed brace someplace safe and preferably under glass once his leg healed.

"Riiight," was Masterson's deadpan reply.

A witty retort was about to roll off his tongue when Wilson entered the room carrying a pair of blue scrub pants under his arm.

"Yes. My escape duds have arrived."

"And so has your ride, so hurry up. I've only got an hour to get you home and situated," Wilson added, tossing them on House's lap.

House shook out the pants and held them up in front of him. His entire body could fit into one leg of the size XXL pants. He found himself wondering how large someone had to be to wear those size scrubs. "I think you brought me Jabba the Hutt's pants."

"He doesn't even have legs. He has a tail." Wilson busied himself with trivial things, such as gathering House's new toys and the bag of shredded denim House insisted on keeping for 'sentimental reasons.'

House threw a suspicious look at Wilson as he bent his long frame at the waist and struggled to get the gigantic pants over his toes. Pinching the fabric between his middle fingers, he was able to toss the open waistband over his feet, keeping a hold of the drawstring as a tether. He swore, once he got these pants on, they were staying on until he could either bend his knee or the pants got tired of him and walked away on their own.

"Just let me-" Wilson offered a helping hand, unable to restrain himself.

"Stop it!" slapping at his hand, "How am I supposed to prove myself to the coach if you keep intercepting my passes?"

"Excuse me for wanting to help." Wilson stepped back and watched with amusement as House wriggled and wiggled the oversized pants up his legs and eventually tied the drawstring around his waist. He leaned back, baring his teeth as he panted from the exertion and the increased pain.

The sooner he got out of this place and home, the sooner he could get some Vicodin in his system and ease the growing throb in his leg. His right thigh was also gently tapping him on the shoulder, making sure it wasn't forgotten. Soon that tap would turn into a sledge hammer if the damaged nerves and muscles weren't appeased with some good drugs.

"At least let me get that IV out, or are you gonna do that yourself, too? Maybe use your teeth?"

"If I have to."

After a brief stare down, House grudgingly surrendered his left hand to Wilson with an exaggerated eye roll. The man obviously lived for this stuff. Who was he to deny his friend this simple pleasure?

After the tape was hastily ripped off, along with every hair unfortunate enough to be caught under the powerful adhesive, House yelped and glared at his friend who seemed to be enjoying this far more than he should.

"Baby."

"You only completely removed my epidermis. Now it's gonna be sore and irritated." He examined the perfect pink square on the back of his hand, touching it gingerly with a fingertip.

"Just like the rest of you," Wilson added, glancing at his watch and motioning House to climb back in the wheelchair. "Would you mind hurrying it up?" he complained, "I've got appointments this afternoon."

"Excuse me for interrupting your precious schedule. Just leave me your keys and I'll drive myself. You think I wanna be around when my team finds out I'm here?"

"In your dreams. You're not touching my car."

"Actually, my dreams consist more of seeing Cuddy without her-"

"Stop." A hand came up as Wilson's eyes squeezed closed, trying to block out the image before House had a chance to finish his sentence. "I'm going to pull the car around. I'm sure you can handle this all on your own, since you clearly don't need anyone's help." He hefted the two plastic bags of clothing and souvenirs then turned for the door.

"Wait."

"What now?"

"Let me see your shoes."

"My what?"

"Shoes. You know those things you wear on your feet, usually made out of some kind of animal hide? Just move away from the bed so I can see. Pretty easy."

Wilson continued to stare at him with those wrinkled eyebrows, probably wondering if he'd received a concussion some time between his visits.

The shiny black dress shoes shone reflected the fluorescent lights above as Wilson held his questioning stare. "Do they meet your approval?"

"They're...fine. You can go now." What was he going to say? He wanted to make sure that Wilson was real and not some twisted illusion or part of a warped nightmare?

"Hey! Don't forget Mini Gravedigger." House motioned with his head toward the R/C truck on the bureau as he continued to manipulate his legs into place before transferring back to the wheelchair. This was wearing him out but at least he'd grown a bit of confidence in his ability to maneuver on his own.

Wilson sighed as he turned around and grabbed the black truck, slung it under his left arm, and hurriedly exited the room.

"And I'm gonna check your car to make sure you didn't toss it in the trash on your way out!" House yelled at Wilson's back, hoping he hadn't just given him any ideas.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: A little reminder: Wilson was getting a bit ticked off in the last chapter due to House's constant badgering about his need to be needed, hence Wilson's "coldness" this chapter. **

**Thanks once again to all of you for your wonderful comments and reviews. You don't know how much it helps. And, as usual, concrit welcome. I'm still new at this.**

Chapter 13

As fast as his broken body would allow, House flopped back into the wheelchair with a grunt and began wheeling down the corridor with focused determination.

He had sensed the escalating hostility from Wilson during his latest visit and tried to put a finger on exactly what was bothering him. He had _always_ teased Wilson about his need for neediness. Why would it all of a sudden bother him now? Maybe Wilson was PMSing. Explained everything. The short temper, mood swings, overall bitchiness.

"I want to see you on Wednesday!" Masterson's booming voice chased him down the hallway, bouncing off the surrounding walls.

"Yeah, yeah!" House yelled towards the ceiling, never slowing for an instant.

The elevators came into view as he rounded the corner. Focused on his destination, he avoided any eye contact from passers-by, fearful of being smothered by some over-bearing, over-caring nurse who would want to try to help the 'poor cripple.'

He didn't need any help. Besides, he had Wilson for that. Wilson, the ever-obedient assistance dog, complete with Basset Hound eyes and the need to please. All that was missing was a collar and leash.

But what he really needed was a healthy leg... or two. But then he might as well be wishing for Salma Hayek to fall out of the sky and offer him a full body massage. Just wasn't happening.

Instead, he was stuck in that damn chair, having to look up at everyone around him, making him feel inferior. Even worse was the fact that everyone would be looking _down_ at him... even Taub.

At least with the cane he could still use his height to his advantage. He would loom over the others like a bird of prey perched high above an open field.

Now his body was folded into the chair with a huge neon sign flashing "handicapped" above him. Sure, the accident had earned him a chance to meet his favorite Monster Truck driver, but was it really worth having to stare at people's crotches for the next six weeks? Of course, that depended on _whose _crotch was involved.

As the elevator doors opened, he spun around and entered the small confines in reverse, looking over his shoulder at the somewhat crowded space.

After backing over a few unsuspecting toes with an "excuse me" and "oops, sorry" thrown in for effect, he received a wider berth as an invisible force field developed around him.

The elevator doors opened with a 'bing.' Exiting the elevator, he headed towards the entrance. He kept an eye out for Wilson who was hopefully bringing the car around to the front of the hospital to pick him up. The comfort and privacy of his own home sounded so appealing right now.

The all-too-familiar sound of expensive heels on tile floor approached rapidly from the right. That sound only meant one thing.

He swung his hands over the wheels faster, as if sprinting for the finish line at the Boston Marathon, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in determination.

Nothing was going to prevent him from escaping, especially Cuddy. She was either going to bitch and moan at him for something he did or didn't do, fret over his well-being and play the caring mother role or maybe he'd get lucky and she'd offer him a lap dance right there in the lobby. The latter being the only reason he'd remotely consider stopping or at least slowing down--and probably the furthest from reality.

"House."

The finish line, or in this case the front doors of the hospital, were in sight as his hands turned over faster on the metal rims. He craned his neck forward in an attempt to... to do what? Break the glass door with his head? There was no finish line. He wasn't being timed. It wasn't like aerodynamics would play an important role at the blistering speed of seven miles per hour. Maybe it was the illusion of being _that_ much closer to escaping.

"House! Wait!" The clacking rate increased to the point of sounding like a horse galloping through the nurse's station. He lunged for the automatic doors, mentally willing them to open before the automatic sensor was triggered, hoping his left leg wasn't about to become a battering ram.

The doors started to open, parting like the Red Sea as he made his final lunge to free-

Two black size seven stilettos suddenly appeared between him and the door.

He immediately grabbed the handrails, feeling the strain in his forearms. The rims squeaked through his palms as he tried to stop before Cuddy ended up on top of him which may or may not be such a bad thing. It all depended on where she landed. Maybe he'd get that lap dance after all.

His hands burned from the friction as he made a mental note to find his fingerless gloves ASAP.

The chair came to an abrupt halt. House's raised left leg slid past Cuddy's right hip as he came within inches of taking out her shins with the front of the wheelchair. He thought twice about letting the chair continue on its present course, but really didn't feel like taking a well-placed knee to the groin.

House looked up at the administrator with an impressed look. "Wow! Have you ever thought of doing one of those High Heel Dash races? You'd give those women a run for their money. Literally."

Ignoring him in her usual way, she waved a folded newspaper in front of her as if ready to beat him like a misbehaving dog.

"Have I been a bad boy?" he leered, raising his eyebrows seductively, feeling the pinch from the stitches above his right eye.

"Depends on your definition of 'bad.'"

"What? I haven't done anyth-" House was already defending himself out of pure habit.

"Nobody said you did. I thought you might want to see this." Cuddy slapped the section of newspaper against House's chest.

He peeled the paper away as if removing a Band-Aid, looking down at it with suspicion.

"Don't worry. It's not armed," she assured him then continued, "One of the greatest medical minds of our generation and you're famous for being hit by a Monster Truck," emphasizing this statement with a roll of her eyes.

He looked up questioningly at her before correcting, "Tire. Monster Truck tire. And you say that like it's a bad thing."

After getting over the initial shock of not being in trouble, he took the paper and lowered his eyes to the page in front of him. There, in bold print, near the bottom of the front page of the sports section, it read:

_LOCAL DOCTOR INJURED BY MONSTER TRUCK_

"Cool." He smiled to himself, almost proud of the fact that he made the paper for something other than saving the life of some famous person, being shot by some lunatic or making the police blotter list for felony charges.

A short article followed, noting the incident and a few quotes from witnesses. '_One second we were watching the finish, next second this giant tire was heading right for him! Luckily, his friend pushed him out of the way just in time,_' said one of the infield fans.

'_It all happened so fast,'_ added another spectator. The paper mentioned how House had even acknowledged the crowd like a baseball player after hitting a game winning home run, calling him a _real trooper._ How much more gag-worthy could it get? God, the media had a way with dramatics.

A small, fuzzy black-and-white picture accompanied the article. From the looks of it, it was taken by someone up in the stands with a telephoto lens. Only small glimpses of House were visible through the crowd surrounding him, most of his prone body obscured by other people's arms or legs.

But there, front and center, was Wilson's concerned face standing out above the others. It looked like Wilson was giving directions to someone across from him, pointing with authority. He looked like he was right in his element, helping someone in need.

Figures. He gets nailed and ends up in the hospital with broken bones, Wilson gets his picture in the paper.

The caption read: _Gregory Horse lies face down on the ground after being hit by a runaway monster truck tire. Several bystanders assisted the injured doctor until paramedics arrived on the scene. He was taken to Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital for treatment. _

"It's House, you idiots. Not Horse. Wrong noun," he said, more to himself than Cuddy. "At least they got it right in the article."

"Did you really announce to thousands of people that you were a doctor at _this _hospital?"

"Would you rather I'd told them I worked someplace else?"

"Yes." Cuddy studied the small picture again. "Wow, Wilson looks like a real hero. Look at the concern on his face."

"Heartbreaking," House answered, feigning empathy. He dropped the act and continued. "Probably because he was wracked with guilt for pushing me in front-"

"Oh, stop it!" Cuddy's voice cut in. "You really think he'd purposely put you in harm's way?"

House looked away, unable to meet Cuddy's gaze. Inside, he knew she was probably right. But it was so much more fun to watch Wilson beat himself up over the whole thing. Wilson would blame himself no matter how the scenario had played out. That was his nature. So why mess with nature?

"That's what's bothering you. You can't deal with the thought that Wilson might have played a part in saving you from that truck."

"Tire."

"Whatever!" Damn, she'd caught his momentary lapse of self-assurance. "This is bugging you, isn't it?"

"Noooo. What's bugging me is the fact that he decided to play hero and gave the illusion of saving my life, when in reality, he pushed just enough to make it _look_ like he was saving me. Great trick. I think smoke and mirrors were involved."

"I'm sure he got out his tape measure and physics textbook to determine the distance and pressure required to make sure you were only injured and not killed, all so he could end up with his picture in the paper. Sounds exactly like something Wilson would do." The sarcastic tone ended as she continued her rant. "Not everyone has an agenda, House. Especially Wilson. He'd be the last person who would want to hurt you because he knows he'd be the one who would have to put up with your whining and dramatics. You really think he'd want that?"

"I don't whi--"

"You know, it wouldn't hurt you to say 'thank you' for once in your life." Her hands went to her hips as she struck that familiar self-righteous pose. She must have been taking lessons from Wilson.

"Gotta go. My guilt-ridden chauffeur awaits." With that, he backed up and wheeled around Cuddy, who remained standing in the doorway. He swore he could feel her glare burning a hole through the back of his head.

--

He rolled down the sidewalk at breakneck speed, eager to escape any more possible roadblocks. Innocent pedestrians leapt to safety on to the well manicured grass as shouts of "Hey, watch it!" and "What the hell?" whizzed past his ears.

The Volvo sat in the pick-up lane in front of the hospital. House could make out Wilson's silhouette in the driver's seat, fingers impatiently tapping the steering wheel.

House stopped in front of the passenger door as Wilson made no effort to get out and help, instead opting for the 'impatient taxi driver' look.

"Ummm, a little help here?" House asked, peeking through the open passenger window.

"I thought you didn't _need _any help," sarcasm dripping from his voice, still staring out the front window.

"Come on. Even I need...you know what? Never mind. I'll do it myself," he said, lifting the handle and swinging the door open.

"Whatever you do, do it fast. I haven't got all day." Wilson kept his eyes glued to the windshield in front of him.

"Who pissed in _your _cornflakes this morning?"

"I didn't _have _breakfast this morning due to the fact that a certain patient's neediness trumped my need for nutrition. And it wasn't just this morning. Nooo... I think it's been happening on a daily basis for ohhhh...about twelve years now."

There was a certain amount of hostility in his voice that was only heard on rare occasions. Wilson was pissed and it was probably due to something House had said. Time to change course.

House picked up the paper in his lap and flipped it onto the seat next to Wilson, hoping to shake him out of his pissed off mood. "Hey, check it out. You're famous."

Wilson scanned the article in two seconds flat. "I'm not the famous one. Looks to me like your name is all over it."

"Yeah, but check out the picture." House pointed towards the paper. "Cuddy said you look like some kind of superhero or something."

The taste of fame didn't seem to deter Wilson from his sour mood. The furrowed eyebrows remained in place as he set the paper on the center console.

As House positioned the chair next to the passenger seat, the logistics of how he was going to negotiate his immobilized limb into the front seat of a car without passing out from the pain kept running through his head. There was no way he'd be able to accomplish this on his own but he was not about to admit defeat.

After changing positions numerous times, he tried to find some way to wedge himself into the seat without jarring his leg for the umpteenth time. He was one more bump away from releasing the mouthful of obscenities that had been barely contained up to this point. Gritting his teeth, he tried again.

Wilson let out an exaggerated sigh as the opposite door opened and shut in a matter of two seconds. _Show off,_ House thought, still trying to figure out the physics involved in wedging himself into the vehicle. If he could only bend his damn leg...

Before he could get the chair turned around, he was pulled away from the car with a vicious tug, the wheelchair spinning a hundred eighty degrees. He clung to the armrests as the momentum almost deposited him face first into the space between the open door and the car.

"Jesus! A little warning next time!" House growled as he righted himself.

"I'd like to get out of here some time within this decade."

Wilson parked the chair next to the open rear door, allowing House access to the bench-style back seat.

"Now pull yourself up and slide across. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out."

"Then it's a good thing there's an oncologist here to show me."

The leather squeaked under his palms and butt as he moved into the car, sliding across the seat until his back was against the opposite door. The arrmrest dug into his back while his left leg stuck out of the opposite side of the car, preventing the door from being closed. Sometimes it sucked to be so tall.

He reached down and gently set his left foot on the floor, allowing just enough space for the door to close safely without amputating his foot in the process.

The injured leg started to throb with the sudden change of position and the cumbersome brace dug into the back of his leg. Cursing gravity, he tried to situate himself into a somewhat comfortable position with his leg dangling at an odd angle off the edge of the seat.

Luckily, the right leg required only a little assistance to get the knee to bend and soon his foot was flat on the seat.

The door closed with a muffled _thump _and slightly bumped the toe of his right gym shoe, sending a mild shock wave into his already aggravated thigh_. _He held back a yelp and swore inwardly as he listened to Wilson swear outwardly. The loud clattering and banging coming from the trunk meant a battle was ensuing between wheelchair and oncologist. From the sound of it, the chair was winning.

"And put on your seatbelt. I don't need to be blamed for any more of your injuries," the slam of the trunk punctuating Wilson's comment.

Taking Wilson's suggestion seriously, House fought with the seatbelt, somehow managing to wrap it around his left hip and click it into place. He flipped the shoulder strap behind his head to keep from strangling himself in his awkward angle.

He chanced a glimpse in the rearview mirror as Wilson trudged around the back of the car toward the driver's side door, holding his right arm gingerly in his left hand.

_Maybe that's part of his problem, _House thought as he stealthily watched Wilson struggle with his own lap belt. Pain tended to make people cranky and in his case, crankier than usual. That right arm was obviously still bothering him and probably hadn't been examined by anyone either. And Wilson called _him _stubborn.

"So, how's that elb-" Before he could finish his question, his right side flattened against the seat as Wilson accelerated the freaking Space Shuttle away from the curb.

House decided for once it was safer to keep his mouth shut...at least for the first few blocks.

--

After a harrowing trip through Princeton with Speed Racer, they came to an abrupt halt near the handicapped entrance behind his building, tires squeaking their disapproval.

Little was said between the hospital and home. House tried to bring up Wilson's arm problem a few times. Wilson vehemently denied anything was wrong, stealing House's line of 'I'm fine.'

"Yeah, I can tell. Everything's perfect, except for the whole useless arm thing."

"House, drop it."

"Yeah, I'm good at that."

"Give it up. I'm not talking."

House conceded for the now, but kept a wary eye on his friend as they drove in silence for the last few blocks. The pain had slowly increased throughout the ride home, every pothole and bump sending daggers deeper and deeper into his lower leg. All he wanted to do was collapse on his lumpy couch and elevate his leg as high as humanly possible to alleviate the unrelenting throbbing deep within in his bones.

Reaching his apartment, Wilson used his own key and opened the front door with a click then waved a hand in an "after you" gesture.

House rolled carefully toward the couch as Wilson slid the small end table out of the way, allowing access for the wheelchair. House scooted in next to the welcome piece of furniture and swung his rear onto the couch, grateful for the relative proximity in height to the chair.

He manhandled his uncooperative legs onto the awaiting cushions, his braced left foot perched on the armrest while another pillow was wedged under his right knee, alleviating any unneeded strain on his right quad.

His face pinched with pain, House slowly reclined his head against the opposite armrest, fist digging into his forehead as he tried to suppress the driving bass line pounding in his lower extremities. Drugs were long overdue and his body was letting him know it. He needed his Vicodin...now.

Without so much as a word, a familiar rattle filled his ears as he peeked out from under his forearm to see an amber bottle dangling in front of his face. Wilson, the assistance dog, to the rescue.

"I didn't bother getting you any water because I knew you wouldn't drink it." Wilson's tone was sharp as a knife. Yep, he was still pissed about something. What that 'something' was, House was trying to discern.

Normally, Wilson would've been right but his throat was still sore from the intubation tube and the fact that he hadn't had much to drink in the last thirty-six hours didn't help the situation. He thought twice about asking for the water considering Wilson's attitude, wondering if he might end up wearing it instead of drinking it, but did it anyway.

"Actually, I am a bit thirsty," he replied innocently, accepting the offered drugs. With practiced ease, he quickly downed two of the oblong pills as he heard heavy footsteps trudge into the kitchen.

Glancing to his right, he followed Wilson with his eyes until they became distracted by the remote sitting within arm's reach on the table in front of him. He grabbed it and flicked on the television, not caring what was actually on. He'd watch The Quilting Channel right now for all he cared. Anything to distract him from the angry cacophony playing in his leg. Correction, make that _legs_ as his right thigh sent it's own discordant tone.

A cup was slammed on the coffee table, water sloshing over the rim, creating little oblong pools on the glass around it. A crotch clad in black dress pants suddenly blocked his view of Spike TV. The first of many crotches he was sure to view over the next few weeks.

"Anything else before I go?"

House lifted his eyes to meet Wilson's gaze, reading his expression to look for any sign that he might be bluffing. Wilson's face remained stoic as he stared back, eyes unwavering.

House's eyebrows raised and mouth dropped at the mere thought of Wilson actually having the guts, let alone the willpower, to walk out on him. The man _lived _for this.

"Seriously? You're not really going back to work."

"Yes, I really am. Now if Your Highness has everything he needs, I'll be going now."

House felt a sudden pang of... was that fear? "But what if I have to use the little boy's room?"

Wilson walked into the kitchen without a word, returning with an empty coffee cup in his left hand.

He handed it to House. "Here. I believe you know how to use one of these, right?"

House could do nothing but stare, his mouth hanging open in shock as Wilson proceeded towards the door. The coffee cup remained dangling from his fingers like a loaded gun.

"And don't worry about taking a dump," Wilson added over his shoulder as he opened the door, "it'll be at least another day or so before that happens. Between the anesthetic, morphine and Vicodin, you'll be lucky to take a crap by the end of the week."

The door slammed shut and House was left alone with nothing but James Bond, a bottle of Vicodin, an empty coffee cup, and a certain sense of foreboding.

--

**Please point out any grammatical errors or inconsistencies. I edited quite a bit AFTER getting it back from my wonderful beta, Magie05. **


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Wilson reread the chart for the umpteenth time, still only able to retain the patient's name, and even _that _had been a challenge. It started with an "N". Was it Nielsen? Nelson? Nordstrom? Something like that. This was getting ridiculous. He had been sitting here for over an hour and had accomplished nothing more than filling his bladder with bad coffee and moving the files from one side of his desk to the other.

One subject kept pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't help but think about how he had treated House earlier and wondered how he was managing on his own at home. Wilson shook his head slightly, hoping it would derail his train of thought. No such luck. How did House manage to squirm his way into every square millimeter of his subconscious? Even when the man wasn't around, he was still _there_.

Trying another tactic of distraction, Wilson took the film out of the file and held it up to the light. As he focused on the black and white image in front of him, he accidently placed his right elbow on the desk surface without thinking. A suppressed grunt escaped and he winced as a sharp twinge followed by a burning sensation traveled from his elbow down to his fingertips like an electrical current.

The X-Ray fluttered to the desk as he reached for his sore elbow and flexed his right hand, willing the pain to subside. There was definitely something wrong. Something that wasn't just going to go away on its own. It hadn't shown any improvement in the last twenty-four hours. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Gingerly, he bent his arm, testing the level of discomfort. The sharpness of the pain had faded to a dull ache within a minute or so. Maybe he could give it another day before bugging someone about it. The last thing he wanted to do was take up a doctor's time with a measly bump on the elbow. It was a trivial injury compared to...say...a cripple with a badly broken leg.

There was House again, limping his way into every thought. Maybe it had something to do with his own need to be needed and House was the king of neediness. Or maybe it was the incredible amount of guilt still plaguing him for putting House in this situation in the first place. The incident was still stuck on 'replay' in his head. Now if he could just come up with an alternative ending besides this one. It was like watching Groundhog Day over and over and over, hoping the outcome will eventually change for the better.

It was more difficult than he thought it would be to watch his friend struggle with his situation, knowing he was the _cause_. The whirlpool of guilt kept swirling around in the pit of his stomach every time he thought about _that moment_ and how he could have prevented it. Maybe if he'd seen the tire a second earlier or if he had pulled House the same direction..._Shoulda, coulda, woulda_.

All of this was because he was trying to do the right thing, save House's life. He sure as hell wasn't a hero. Heroes kept people out of harm's way, they didn't push them directly into it head first.

House wasn't helping the situation by continually rubbing his nose in it by poking little jibes here and there, making Wilson feel even worse if that were possible. Wilson didn't need a constant reminder to realize he'd failed to protect his best friend. Not that it was his job, but somehow he felt a sense of responsibility towards House, like a parent felt towards their troublesome toddler, always trying to protect House from harm, and sometimes...himself.

The chart in front of him went out of focus, the words blurring into incomprehensible black dots that seemed to come alive on the page. The words morphed into images of House lying helpless on the floor in pain, lying in his own waste, unable to move. That picture morphed into House unconscious on the couch, the victim of an unintentional overdose. Why was it that every worst case scenario ran through his head when he thought about House? Probably because the man had basically made him suffer through finding him in similar situations before. Wilson decided that raising kids _had _to be easier than being House's best friend, at least easier on his nervous system and stomach lining.

The piercing electronic ring of his desk phone made him jump, causing several folders to flutter to the floor in disarray.

He took a moment to compose himself before answering, staring at the now non-alphabetized charts littering the floor.

"Dr. Wilson," he replied in a professional tone, assuming it was Dr. Petrungaro returning his earlier phone call regarding one of his pediatric patients.

"What are you doing?" Oh, it was _him. _Wilson should have known. That was good and bad news. Good news because all previous fears were quickly washed away at the sound of House's voice and his stomach could stop churning out gallons of acid. Bad news because House either wanted something or was bored.

Wilson decided to play along. "What do you think I'm doing? Working."

"Okay, that's a bit vague. What kind of work? Give me specifics here. I need to visualize what you're doing."

"That's just weird." But he decided to satisfy House's need for knowledge. "Ummm...Filling out charts. Happy?" He wasn't about to add _and thinking about whether you were still in one piece and how my guilt over injuring you is eating me alive. _

"Need more specifics. What are you wearing?"

"What?" Wilson squeaked, sounding like a girl to his own ears. Regaining his composure before continuing. "What do you think I'm wearing? The same thing I was wearing when I left your place less than two hours ago."

"Don't you know how to paint a visual picture by using words? It's a sign of a true artist."

"How much Vicodin have you taken? You know what. I'll play your little game. Okay, I'm sitting at my desk facing towards the west, the sun is setting outside my window. There's a pile of charts on the floor now because the phone scared the crap out of me. There's a three quarters empty cup of cold coffee sitting in the left corner of my desk. I'm also writing in a patient's chart. I'm not telling you _what_ I'm writing because then I'd be violating the HIPPA act so you'll have to use your imagination there."

House answered the questions randomly. "Not enough. Sounds like you've had too much caffeine. You're such a pessimist, I'd call the cup a quarter full."

"Yeah, you're Mr. Sunshine."

"With a pen?"

"Mr. Sunshine with a pen?" It drove him nuts how House would change subjects in the middle of a conversation.

"You said you were writing. Are you writing with a pen?" That was an odd question, even for House.

Wilson stared at the black instrument resting in his left hand. "Of course. What else would I be using? Would you prefer I use a crayon? Maybe fingerpaints? I'm sure you have some ar-"

"You know, you could be writing with a bich," the word came out sounding like 'bitch'. This made Wilson's eyebrows furrow in confusion. What the hell was he talking about? "Um, I believe that's your field of expertise."

House continued his little speech. "The Bic pen was originally called the Bich pen. Did you know that? I'm guessing you didn't. Just think, you could be walking around with a bunch of 'biches' hanging from your pocket protector."

"Darn the bad luck and political correctness." Wilson had to smile at his pen for some reason but kept up the 'annoyed friend' act with House. "Thanks for that important piece of information, oh wise one."

"You're welcome. And whatever you do, don't call me Kemo Sabe. All that time Tonto was calling The Lone Ranger a Soggy Shrub in Navajo. Some sidekick _he_ was." House added.

"Now you've totally ruined my image of The Lone Ranger. Thanks." Wilson picked up his room temperature coffee and took a sip.

"Hey, don't blame me. Blame Tonto. I wasn't the one calling him a wet bush."

Wilson almost lost it. He sputtered as he tried to keep the liquid in his mouth from redecorating his desk and anything else within spitting distance. He slammed the receiver on his shoulder to muffle the snorts and choking sounds as he painfully swallowed the coffee. It felt like he had just downed a marble.

Regaining his composure, he raised the phone back to his ear and made up some lame excuse for the odd noise House must have heard. "Sorry, had to sneeze."

"Hopefully you covered your mouth like a good Jewish boy or you just blew air and snot out of your nose across your office at a hundred miles per hour."

"Wow. So glad I know that and now my life is complete. Why are you telling me about all of these obviously important facts that I obviously _had _to know right now? And I'm afraid to ask, but where did you find these random bits of information?"

"This cool thing called the Interweb. Found it inside my laptop, which was sitting on the coffee table within my limited reach. I guess that means you haven't checked your email lately."

Wilson cringed at the thought of checking his inbox any time in the near future, especially with witnesses around.

"I Googled 'useless facts.'"

"And you felt compelled to share them with me."

"Naturally. Did you know that four million 'junk' phone calls soliciting one thing or another are made every day in the United States?"

"Make that four million one." He made sure to add a tinge of annoyance to his voice, even though deep down he felt the fear and trepidation easing. House was still conscious and seemed fine and, in fact, sounded slightly amused. "Was there something you wanted?"

"I'm bored."

"Gee, I couldn't tell. What, the Internet not exciting enough for you anymore? Surely, there's enough useless facts and porn on there to keep you occupied for at least another ten minutes."

"Battery died and the charger's on the other side of the room. The damn cord fell behind the desk, and I'm not really in a crawling mood today."

Wilson felt that twinge of guilt twist a little tighter in his gut. Just when he was starting to feel tension easing just a bit. He tried to keep the hesitancy and guilt out of his voice, letting the sarcasm flow. The last thing House would want was him pouring out his soul about how sorry he was and how the guilt was tearing him to pieces. Best to keep up the cold shoulder act. It was easier for everyone.

"Sooo, when did you drop the cord behind your desk?"

"I don't know. Sometime last week."

"And it's still back there." Wilson stated flatly.

"I was busy."

"Right."

"If you care to recall, I was at the hospital late on Thursday," House replied, "oh wait! You wouldn't know that because you went home about _eight hours _earlier while I stayed late to work on a case, which I solved by the way."

"Never doubted you for a second." Wilson said, rolling his eyes skyward.

"Of course you didn't. So, back to the important subject...I'm bored."

"Sorry, I forgot to leave you an itinerary for today."

"There's nothing on TV, I've read through every piece of literature within arm's reach and now I have nothing to do but sit here on this damn couch, waiting for you to come up with something to entertain me."

"What about your Tivo'd shows? I'm sure you have-"

"Watched them in fast forward. Soaps don't need dialogue. Pretty easy to tell who's doing it with who."

"Whom."

"What?"

"Who's doing it with whom."

"Oh, whatever. Grammar Nazi..." House muttered before raising his voice an octave. "So, what should I do now?"

"What am I? Your cruise director?"

"If you are, you really suck at it. I thought you'd be a pro, what with being married to Julie and all."

"She wasn't a cruise director and you're showing your age with the Love Boat reference." Wilson wasn't about to admit that he had probably watched every episode of the show back in the late seventies and early eighties. He had even fantasized as a kid about working on a cruise ship someday and sailing around the world in style. Secretly he had wished he were Gopher sometimes. What a cushy job that would have been. House would have a field day with that if he ever found out.

"And yet you knew what I was talking about."

Wilson felt the heat rise in his face. House knew him too well. Quickly, he reverted back to the original subject. "House, what do you want? I'm busy."

"I'm hungry."

"I thought you said you were bored."

"I can't be both?"

"Anything else you want to add?" Wilson asked.

"I really have to pee and I don't think the coffee cup you left me is big enough."

"Next time I'll Biggie Size it."

"Doesn't do much good. I _really _have to pee _now_."

"Then go!"

"I know you like using my couch as a urinal, but I prefer the bathroom, thanks."

"You know what I mean. Just get up and go to the bathro-" Wilson squeezed the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

House's tone changed from lighthearted and mischievous to pissed off in a heartbeat. "You think this is easy for me? You think I can just hover in there on my magic flying couch and take a piss while floating above the toilet? I know I probably make being crippled look like a piece of cake. Trust me, it sucks more than you think...especially now."

Those words pierced Wilson like a finely honed spear, impaling him against a wall of guilt and empathy. House admitting his mobility problems probably hurt him as much as Wilson, if not more so. Luckily, House quickly retreated from his offensive stance and returned to the banter as quickly as it had vanished, leaving only a small puncture wound in Wilson's emotions.

"Where's my stuff?" There went House, changing the subject mid-stride again.

"What stuff?"

"The stuff that you were supposed to put in your car while I was trying to maneuver my crippled ass out of the hospital."

Oh, crap. House's _stuff. That _stuff. Dennis Anderson's gifts. He must've left it in the trunk when he was fighting with the damn wheelchair and his sore elbow.

"Mini Gravedigger better be in one piece or you'll be driving to...wherever the hell it is that Dennis Anderson is right now and explain to him how you maliciously stole my gifts and threw them mercilessly in the trash because you're a...."

"Stop! Everything's safe. I didn't throw anything away. It's in the trunk. I...just forgot to take it out."

An exasperated sigh filled his ear.

"I'll come by tomorrow some time and drop it off if I get a chance."

"Sorry to inconvenience you. You know, I wouldn't be totally incapacitated if you hadn't-"

Wilson felt his blood pressure skyrocket with just those few words. "Don't. Don't go there." Was House going to hang this over his head for the rest of his damned life? He recalled Cuddy's words from a few months back after House had made some nasty comments regarding her motherly instincts. House knew right where to poke that stick.

"Maybe you could send one of my lackeys over here with the goods. Don't give the stuff to Kutner, he'd probably try to steal it and leave the state. You know what? On second thought, maybe you _should_ give it to him. He's afraid of me and won't try anything stupid. Speaking of lackeys, what's up with my team, version 2.0? They miss me yet?"

"Doubt it. In fact, I thought I heard the sound of celebratory horns echoing through the halls earlier and it sounded like it was coming from your office."

"It was probably Taub blowing his nose. Have you seen the size of that thing? Trust me, it's deafening."

Wilson ignored House's insensitive remarks and continued. "I don't think they have a case. Cuddy put all referrals on hold until she gets a confirmation on your return. Kutner had already filled in the entire team on what happened. No surprise there. I saw Kutner and Taub in the clinic earlier today so they're keeping busy."

"And Thirteen? Is she busy answering my pointless emails, dusting my desk, scrubbing floors or getting down and dirty with that lesbian nurse from ICU?"

"I wouldn't know. Haven't seen her yet today. I could drop the stuff off tonight. It probably won't be until later. I'll call before I leave here." There he went again. Being the enabler. He couldn't help it. It was in his blood.

"Fine. It's not like I'll be out going for a jog or something. I'll be anxiously awaiting your arrival." House's words were sharp with bitter sarcasm. He was frustrated, bored and incapacitated. Not a good combination when it came to House.

"And pick up some food. I don't care what you get, as long as it's edible. Couch cushions are too high in fiber for my taste."

Wilson agreed as House ended the call. A line from The Godfather randomly popped into his head. Al Pacino had said "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in." His relationship with House was similar to Michael Corleone's relationship with the Mafia. It was daring, exciting, adventurous, funny at times and, when you least expect it, you could end up gasping for air with a garrote wrapped around your neck. Even with the inherent risks, House was still worth it.

--------------------------------

The rest of the afternoon went a little faster with the relief of knowing that House was still alive and kicking...okay, maybe not kicking but he seemed to be _himself. _ He hoped House hadn't gotten too bored and was making crank calls to the Playboy Mansion or something.

Wilson finished the last of his consults and prepared to leave for the night. It was only six o'clock, over an hour earlier than he had planned.

He picked up his briefcase with his left hand, mindful of his sore elbow, and headed for the parking garage.

Exiting the elevator, he pushed the speed dial for House to see if he had decided what he wanted for dinner.

After several rings, he heard an abrupt "What" from the other end. It was accompanied by what sounded like heavy breathing or panting.

"I finished up early and was wondering if you'd made up your mind about dinner yet."

"Told you...don't care." House snapped. His voice sounded tight, clipped. Wilson's built-in House alarm went off.

Hearing the tone of his friend's voice, he subconsciously picked up his pace towards the waiting Volvo.

"House? What's up?" concern creeping into his voice even though he tried to play it off as a simple question friends usually ask friends.

There was a slight pause before House responded. "Nothing. And since when...did you care? Last I recalled...you blew me off this morning...left me here...alone." Slight gasps separated his words.

"House..." Wilson fumbled for an appropriate response. He sucked at trying to act like he didn't care. This morning he tried to put up a front and act uncaring. Little did House know that all Wilson wanted to do was get back to work and try to rid his mind of the overwhelming guilt he felt when in House's presence. The only thing left to do was try to make amends. "What do you want to eat? You never really tol-"

"I don't care!" Another pause. "Just get me a damn Happy Meal or something."

"Hey, don't get pissed at me! I don't want to bring you something from Boston Market then have to listen to you bitch and moan about how you wanted Chinese."

"You don't have to stay and listen. Just _walk_ out like you did this morning." Ouch, that hurt. "Just bring me _something_ before I...you know what? Pizza. There. Happy? Now hang up and order it from Jimano's...pick it up on the way here."

"I'm at my car now." Wilson held the phone between his shoulder and ear, cursing the ridiculously small size of cell phones nowadays as it started slipping under his chin. He quickly threw his briefcase in the passenger seat to free up his left hand and grabbed the phone before it became a pile of useless electronics and plastic scattered across the concrete floor. "Okay, in the car."

"Thanks for the play by play, Bob Costas. I'm hanging up now." The call ended abruptly and Wilson was left sitting behind the wheel, trying to interpret the strange conversation that just took place. House sounded...off. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones.

He headed towards House's apartment as fast as possible, convincing himself that is was okay to exceed the speed limit just this once.

The pizza could wait.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Geez, I'm sorry (once again) for the ridiculously long delay between chapters. Blame it on my real life, my incessant need to edit and re-edit, or maybe it's my fear of posting something that sucks. No excuse is good enough for making you wait this long. Hopefully, you all will forgive me and enjoy this chapter.

Chapter 15

Wilson shielded his eyes from the orange glow engulfing his windshield as he drove toward House's apartment. He didn't bother searching his briefcase for his sunglasses. It would waste precious minutes to pull over and dig them out, and every second counted.

After turning right, the constant glow turned into a strobe light as he drove north, the sun filtered through the gaps between the rows of buildings and trees. He moved his hand to the side of his face and dealt with it until he reached House's building.

Wilson parked across the street from House's window, darted across the traffic and hopped up the couple of stairs toward the familiar front door.

Even though he wanted to throw the door open and run inside, he clung to his politeness and knocked first. No response. Maybe House had dozed off or he was being his typical stubborn self and outright refused to answer...at least he hoped that was all it was.

He pushed the door open with hesitancy and peeked around the edge, almost afraid of what he'd find. "House?" he called out cautiously, as if waiting to be pounced on by some wild animal.

"House!" He called out a bit louder this time, moving further into the dark room. The only source of light was coming from the beams of golden sunlight angling through the curtains and the bluish hue emitting from the television. Both the wheelchair and its would-be occupant were nowhere to be seen. House couldn't have ventured out anywhere, could he? How far could a guy get with two bad legs?

Wilson's eyes made a quick tour of the room, taking in the evidence surrounding him. House's laptop sat closed on top of the coffee table littered with several magazines and an almost full bottle of Vicodin. Now he knew for sure there was no way House had gone anywhere. He'd never let his Vicodin out of his sight.

A familiar coffee cup was teetering dangerously close to the edge of the glass surface, filled to the brim with what looked like apple juice but he knew it was something else. As he leaned in for a closer look, the pungent odor of urine filled his nose, his assumption confirmed. Regret gnawed at his insides when he thought about how he had treated House earlier that morning, leaving him with a lousy coffee cup to use as a urinal.

The couch was a mass of blankets and pillows, all rearranged to offer the most support for House's injuries. Wilson could almost picture House's body conforming to the peaks and valleys of the leather and cotton landscape. He turned and noticed a thin sliver of light escaping from the partially closed bathroom door.

"House!" he repeated for the third time, hopefully loud enough for House to hear, "you okay in there?"

A loud racket echoed into the hallway, accompanied by a shouted expletive. Wilson's momentary relief disappeared as the fear that had been gnawing at his insides decided to take a full-fledged bite.

Wilson sprinted down the hall in three strides, heart pounding in his neck, and threw open the door to find a tangled mass of arms, legs, wheelchair and stool spread out across the floor.

"Jesus, House..." Wilson bent down to examine his friend, who was lying on his right side, braced left leg laying awkwardly over his bent right one. House seemed to be trying to push himself onto his elbows when Wilson reached out and grabbed House's shoulder. A stray hand came up and blindly backhanded him in the chest, just missing his chin. Wilson raised his hands in surrender. "Fine! Do it yourself. When are you gonna stop this tough guy act and admit that you might need a little help once in a while?" he lectured. Stubborn bastard..." he muttered under his breath.

House pivoted his head around to look at Wilson over his shoulder. His face was set in grim determination, tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead as he pushed himself onto his elbows. Trembling arms reached down to move his splinted leg off of the bent right leg trapped underneath. House couldn't hold back a grimace as limbs were repositioned before sitting upright, leaning back on the palms of his hands. Pained blue eyes stared at the ceiling for a few moments before lowering to meet Wilson's gaze. "Heard that..."

"Meant it. So, are you gonna let me help you up or are you going to spend the next six weeks on the floor of your bathroom?" Wilson asked, pushing the ottoman upright.

"Bathroom floor sounds good. At least I'm close to the toilet. Maybe I can aim up and do the whole fountain thing." House stared at the floor for a few moments in contemplation. "Tell you what, you go get my pills from the living room and I'll let you help me up."

"Wow. What a deal. How could I miss this opportunity?" Wilson hustled out to the living room and returned with the plastic bottle in hand. He had no problem using those as a bargaining chip if it meant House might actually accept a little help.

House quickly downed two pills and leaned back against the wall opposite of the bathtub. "I know how you live for this but please...try to contain your excitement."

"I'm resisting the urge to celebrate," Wilson deadpanned while taking a seat on the edge of the tub. He had no idea how long House had been stuck on the floor in there and assumed House was giving the drugs a chance to kick in before attempting to move. Maybe he could get some information out of him, even though it was about as dangerous as teasing a crocodile. But right now he felt like sticking his head into the croc's mouth since he was pretty sure he could outrun him. "So, want to tell me what happened?"

"Nope. You're smart enough to put two and two together...do the math," House replied without opening his eyes. The croc didn't have much fight in him at the moment.

House rested the back of his head against the wall, his face angled toward the ceiling. The vanity light cast an eerie glow off those high cheek bones and long forehead, capturing the sharp angles and deep lines that defined his face. The line of stitches above his right eye gave the appearance of some black multi-legged insect making its way up his forehead.

House opened his mouth again, eyes still closed. "You know that coffee cup you left me? Let's just say it sucks to have to stop peeing midstream."

"So you tried to go to the bathroom and..." Wilson encouraged with a wave of his hand. The gesture was pointless unless House was capable of seeing through his own eyelids.

To Wilson's surprise, House continued. "That part was successful...well, mostly anyway. I hate peeing sitting down. Anyway, it was at post-pee where I ran into a few problems."

Wilson waited for the rest of the story, but was met with nothing more than the sounds of slightly labored breathing laced with an occasional sharp inhale. Obviously, the pain meds hadn't kicked in yet.

"And?" Wilson urged him on, searching for more details.

House's eyes snapped open, sending a scathing stare his direction. "And what? What do you think happened?" House snarled, his breathing starting to regulate a bit despite the frustration and humiliation he must have been feeling. "I ended up on the goddamn floor unable to pick up my own sorry ass. Maybe I _should_ get one of those 'I've fallen and I can't get up' thingies."

"I think it was called a Life Alert."

"Maybe they should call it an 'I was an idiot and tried to do more than I was physically capable of doing and ended up on the floor, unable to move so now I need to be pathetically rescued by my best friend who lives for this stuff' alert."

"I don't think they could fit all that on there."

"We'll make an acronym," House suggested. Wilson noticed House's respirations had slowed to a normal rate and the muscles in his forearms had finally relaxed as his vice-like grip he had on each thigh eased.

"You know," House remarked while reaching down to reposition the cumbersome leg brace, "more injuries occur in the bathroom than anywhere else in the house. Dangerous place."

"Remind me to avoid the bathroom in the future."

"Might run into other problems, like where to go to take a crap."

"Guess I'll have to risk it, then." Wilson took this moment to ask the burning question he knew House would despise, so he tried to make it as neutral and non-caring as possible. "Anything hurt?" Unsurprisingly to him, this earned an evil glare. "I mean, besides the obvious."

A sharp "No" was all that was said. Wilson left it at that.

They sat in silence, across from one another, a mutual understanding between them. House, his back to the wall, literally and figuratively, and Wilson on the edge of the bathtub, patiently waiting for the go-ahead from House to help move him back into the wheelchair. House kept his eyes closed, jaw muscles clenched under the longer-than-usual scruff.

Wilson waited patiently for House to make the first move. There was a "don't ask, don't touch" unwritten law between them. Not that Wilson always adhered to the rules, slipping up on occasion by reaching out before asking if help was warranted. He had learned early on that grabbing House's arm or supporting him in any way without House's consent usually led to a slapped hand or a cane to the shin. Or House would simply jerk his arm out of Wilson's grasp, usually accompanied by several obscenities and a stern "I can do it myself!", a simple but threatening "Don't..." or Wilson's favorite, "I'm fine."

A slight nod from House initiated the action. Wilson rose from his porcelain bench and positioned himself to House's right. "Okay, how do you want to do this?"

"I don't."

"Yeah. I get it. You don't want any help. You don't _need_ help. You know what? Tough. I'm here. I'm helping. So deal with it." More anger in his voice than he had intended. "What are you gonna do? Kick me out?"

House sent a scathing look Wilson's direction before scooting away from the wall on his hands and butt. Positioning himself next to the ottoman, he placed his left hand on the top before acknowledging Wilson. "Leave the chair for now. Just...get me up here." He patted the top of the footstool, "I'll do the rest."

"Fine. Don't blame me when you end up on your ass again."

"Isn't that how I ended up like this in the first place? Your incessant need to save the world."

"Thanks. My day wasn't shitty enough already."

"And mine's...been full of kittens and moonbeams." House grunted out, shoulder muscles rippling under his black T-shirt as he lifted his butt and shifted closer to the ottoman.

Wilson squeezed in behind House, using the wall as support for his problematic back. Last thing he needed right now was to be laid up with a strained muscle.

He slid his hands under House's armpits, feeling the dampness of sweat through the soft cotton T-shirt. "Okay, ready?"

A slight nod.

"Set..uuuuup!" Wilson heaved as House lunged toward the stool, twisting his upper body awkwardly in the process.

The shift in weight caused Wilson to stumble backward, striking the wall with his right elbow. Fireworks ignited in his arm as he reflexively reached for the source of intense burning. A yelp bounced off the bathroom walls as both men faltered, House clutching to the ottoman like a lifeline, Wilson grabbing his elbow as if he'd just been shot, which was pretty much how it felt at the moment. He was busy trying to refocus his eyes again, clutching his right arm tightly as the burning embers threatened to sear a hole right through his skin. Through pained gasps, he managed to ask House if he was okay.

House was busy untwisting his lanky frame back into some kind of shape other than a pretzel, upper body turned to the left, hands grasping either side of the stool. Slowly, he righted himself on the ottoman and leaned against the wall. Once he was able, he sent a menacing glare Wilson's direction. "Knew... you were...trying to...kill me..." he breathed.

Wilson looked up from his slumped position against the wall, his hand still clinging to his forearm. He really didn't want to touch the elbow, in fear that it might set off a new round of fireworks. It was just now starting to diminish enough for him to reply to House's scathing remark. But before he could rid his face of any evidence of discomfort, he looked up to see blue eyes boring a hole straight through his facade. He was busted.

"Aha! I knew it," House remarked with a sense of triumph, "You've been tiptoeing around, not using that arm, keeping it hidden from me under long sleeves, denying anything was wrong."

"Sound familiar?" Wilson replied, looking up at the annoying know-it-all in front of him.

"Did you really think you could hide this from me?" House made a 'get over here' gesture with his hand. "Come here. Let me see what you did to yourself."

"Right. So you could poke and prod and inflict more pain." Wilson shook his head. "No thanks, I'll suffer by myself."

"What?" House responded innocently. He sat up a bit more on the ottoman, wincing at the movement. "I just want to see it."

"Are you okay?" Wilson had caught House's wince and saw a stray hand reach down to squeeze his right thigh.

"Stop deflecting. This isn't about me. I asked you first."

"You haven't even asked if _I _was okay. You just want to see my elbow so your twisted, obsessed brain can come up with a diagnosis. It's all about the puzzles."

"That hurts, you know. Now let me see." Another waggle of fingers toward Wilson. He looked from House's hand up to his eyes and caught a glimpse of something there besides the usual pain and indifference. Was it concern? No. It couldn't be. He didn't think House was capable of being concerned for another human being.

Wilson finally surrendered and moved to the edge of the bathtub and took a seat, mindful of House's left leg jutting out across the space between them.

After Wilson sat down, House grabbed a fistful of blue scrubs and hoisted his immobilized leg over Wilson's lap and placed his heel gingerly on the edge of the tub to Wilson's right, creating a makeshift bridge between the tub and ottoman. He slid his right leg up against Wilson's left leg, virtually straddling Wilson's legs.

"C'mon. Show me," House demanded with another wave of his hand.

Wilson knew there was no escape and finally conceded, rolling his cuffs along with his eyes. The sleeve was too tight and even the pressure from the material against his tender elbow was enough to cause discomfort. He hissed and pushed the sleeve back down. "Too tight."

"That's what they all say. Off," House demanded with another obnoxious wave of his hand.

"Oh, come on. Now you want me to strip?" Wilson was starting to wish he had stayed at work.

"No, I'll just use my X-ray vision. Face it, you are not leaving here until I look at that elbow so you might as well give up now." A slight smile crept across House's face. "Besides, I need my housekeeper healthy. Get it? House and House... that would be me...little play on words there."

"Ha. Ha. _That_ never gets old." House could be so childish at times.

Wilson was unbuttoning his white dress shirt basically one-handed as House's scrutinizing stare focused on him. It wasn't a creepy stare. It was intense, analytical. It was the same look Wilson often saw when House was working on a case, staring at his white board, trying to figure out the answer.

As the shirt was peeled back, House shielded his eyes from Wilson's exposed chest. "Geez, are you trying to blind me?" House mocked, holding his forearm in front of his eyes, "when was the last time that torso saw the light of day?"

"I use sun block! And maybe you forgot, but I _am _an oncologist. Ever hear of melanoma?"

"Wish I had an albino joke right now. Can't think of any. That's one race that doesn't get enough attention."

"That's not a ra-forget it. I'll go to the clinic tomorrow and-" Wilson started closing his shirt again. He didn't need to be ridiculed about the color, or lack thereof, of his skin.

"Oh, relax. I didn't realize you were so touchy about the color of your skin. Foreman never complains."

"Not in front of you, anyways." But Wilson accepted House's attempt at an apology and carefully slid off the right sleeve, revealing the giant egg-sized bump on the end of his elbow. It was surrounded by a nice shade of purple and green. A small scrape was directly in the middle of the swelling, indicating where Wilson had landed.

House gripped Wilson's arm above and below the injury, long fingers wrapping around his bicep and forearm with unexpected gentleness and care.

He followed House's eyes to the injured elbow, watching for any changes in the vibrant blue irises focusing intently on the job at hand. It was amazing how House could switch from acerbic and obnoxious to caring and almost doctor-like in seconds.

"Hmmm. Interesting."

"What?"

"Looks like you stole my magic eight ball and hid it in your elbow."

"It's not _that _swollen." Wilson moved his head into an impossible angle, trying to get a better look.

"Right. And my leg's not _that _broken. Semantics." House pressed lightly on the top of Wilson's elbow, near his forearm. "That hurt?"

"No. Not really."

The fingers traveled back, towards the back of his arm. "How about here?"

"You really don't- yeah, a little."

House's brows furrowed a bit more, grim determination etched in the lines of his face. He pressed the underside of his elbow.

"Listen, why don't-Ow!" Instinctively, he pulled back from the source of pain as he literally saw stars dance in his vision.

House kept probing around the bony process, Wilson protesting loudly. "Ah! Just leave it!"

"Hmmm. Tenderness in the medial region of the epicondyle. Any tingling or pain in your fingers?"

House drove him crazy sometimes with his diagnostic capabilities. Even with his specialty being in Infectious Diseases, his knowledge of the human body and how it worked was, at times, scary.

"Yes, both. In the last two fingers." He was already suspecting a nerve problem before House confirmed it.

"Sounds like ulnar nerve involvement. You need an X-ray and possible MRI to confirm."

"You're not an orthopedic specialist. And you'd prescribe an MRI for me if I cut myself shaving." He would see Masterson when he got a chance. Once House was, more or less, back on his feet.

"Last time I checked, I still have one of those certificate thingies that says 'doctor' on it and everything." House continued his exam. "Could be an olecranon fracture, ruptured bursa for sure."

"It's not fractured. I've been able to bend it and-"

"That doesn't mean anything and your range of motion is limited."

Wilson wasn't surprised. Of course House would notice how he had been careful with his arm, trying to hide the swelling and discomfort because he knew _this _was what would happen. A differential diagnosis on his right elbow.

A hand was thrust towards his chest. "Shake."

Wilson looked confusedly at the offered hand. "What am I? You're dog?"

"In some ways, yes. Just trying to prove a point."

"Which is?"

"You're hiding a problem from me and denying it."

"Gee, I don't know anyone who'd do _that._"

"I said this isn't about me. Now shake." House knew it would cause him pain to squeeze his hand.

"Fine. You win. It hurts, okay? Happy?"

"Always." House palpated the ligament under his elbow, sending another bolt of electricity down his arm.

"Ow, dammit!"

"Hmmmm. The pain could be from edema or possible blunt trauma directly to the nerve branch. Possible cubital tunnel syndrome. Maybe a _fracture _impeding on the nerve branch." House made sure to stress the word 'fracture.'

"It's not _fractured_." Wilson knew House was going to keep pushing until proven wrong.

"Wanna bet?"

"I'm _not _betting on my elbow."

"Because you know you'll lose."

"Thanks for your concern. I'll take my sore elbow and go home now."

"You should wrap that or at least pad it with something so you don't bump it again and drop some other cripple on his head."

"I didn't drop you on your head, but I suspect your parents did at some time during your childhood." Wilson was still trying to contort his body to look at his elbow.

"There's a first aid kit under my bed. I might have something in there you can use."

"You keep your first aid kit under your bed?" He really shouldn't have been _that _surprised by anything House did.

"Figured if I needed it, I was probably already on the floor to start with. Logistics."

Wilson nodded his head in agreement and looked down at the injured left leg pinning him in like he was some farm animal. He probably could have easily tried to step over the cumbersome brace but didn't want to risk bumping it by accident and sending House through the roof, let alone deal with the ramifications. "Wanna let me up?"

"Oh, sorry. Didn't realize my useless leg was holding you hostage." House grabbed a handful of his scrubs again and swung his leg back over Wilson's lap. Dennis Anderson's autograph flashed in front of his eyes as the bottom of House's splinted foot sailed past his head and landed gently back on the ledge to his left.

Wilson got up and went into House's bedroom. Looking under the bed, he located the unusually large tackle box-style first aid kit and brought it the few feet over to the floor on House's left, wondering if he should just go ahead and fish through the medical supplies himself.

House answered the question before Wilson even had a chance to open his mouth. "Go ahead...open it. I've got nothing to hide...at least not in there."

Wilson looked suspiciously over at House, contemplating the last part of his reply before popping open the clips on the generic looking black tackle box. At first glance, he was impressed with how well the kit was stocked and organized.

It looked like a professionally packed First Aid kit with bonus features. Everything from simple Band-Aids and a tube of Neosporin to cold packs and alcohol pads. Several rolls of medical tape lay stacked like miniature tires, one on top of the other on the fold out shelf. Antiseptic wipes, Hibiclens cloths and a thick roll of gauze were all within easy reach.

In the bottom of the kit, he noticed some items meant to stop excessive bleeding such as a Bleed Arrest combo pack and some hemostatic gauze. Wilson knew House had been on Coumadin for months following the infarction. It was probably a precaution in case House had injured himself in a fall or accidently cut himself while on the blood thinners.

He dug through the other miscellaneous items until he found a stack of individually wrapped 8x10 gauze pads nestled in the very bottom. They were the perfect size to cover a...thigh. Realization dawned on him that these had been used when House was recovering from the surgery on his leg. In fact, most of the paraphernalia in the kit dated back to the infarction.

"You know," Wilson stated, turning various items over in his hand, "most of this stuff is expired."

"Just because there's a date stamped on it, doesn't mean it's not any good." House grabbed the Benadryl cream, studying it carefully as if it were some strange specimen. "Hmmm. Expires May 2001. That was still in this decade, right?"

Wilson threw him a sidelong glance as House continued. "It's still good. It hasn't even been opened. Besides, the date's meaningless. The manufacturer just wants me to buy more of it even though the stuff probably has a shelf life as long as a Twinkie."

"You're right. The evil manufacturers have no interest in the safety and well-being of the consumer at all."

"Oh, come on. They could give a flying crap about whether or not I develop a fungal infection after using athlete's foot cream that causes my big toe to fall off. Wouldn't that be ironic, though? Developing a fungal infection from using an anti-fungal agent... Anyway, all they're doing is protecting themselves from some gigantic lawsuit. It's all a ploy to get people to waste their money replacing this stuff when it's not necessary. It's all about money. Now give me that elbow."

"For you, it's all about protecting the people." Wilson quipped, hesitantly extending his arm toward House's outstretched hands.

House busied himself, ripping several pieces of tape with his teeth, gaining a sterility comment from Wilson and opened one of the packages containing one of the thick pads. It was big enough to wrap around his entire arm. "I don't need my arm wrapped like a burrito."

"I _know _that. Gimme a chance, would you?" House reached down and grabbed a pair of medical scissors out of the kit and efficiently cut the pad down to 'Wilson's elbow' size. He placed it gently against Wilson's elbow. "Here, hold this."

Wilson held the pad in place and watched as House promptly and professionally wrapped the tape around the top and bottom of the pad. House pressed the last piece of tape firmly in place then sat back and admired his work. "There. Your own personal bumper. Now try not to wreck daddy's car again."

He flexed the elbow carefully, testing House's handiwork. Not too tight, not too loose. It put no extra pressure on the injury itself but yet protected it from further abuse. Satisfied, he pulled his shirt back on.

"That should hold until you see Masterson tomorrow."

"Um, I believe it's _you_ that's seeing him. Not me."

"No. _We're _seeing him tomorrow because you're driving," House clarified, "unless you want me to hitch a ride or something. I'm sure there's bound to be some other sympathetic sap out there who'd be willing to pick up a pathetic cripple."

"I'll make an appointment."

"No, you'll see...wait." House sniffed the air and looked suspiciously over at Wilson who was perched back on the tub ledge. "You didn't get the pizza, did you?" It was more a statement than a question.

"I..."

Wilson could see the cogs turning in House's brain. "You were here in less than ten minutes from the time you got in your car. Unless your Volvo has light speed, there's no way you could have left the hospital, gotten the pizza and made it here that fast. Even if you had ordered it before getting there, it still should have taken you at least fifteen minutes. It normally takes you twelve minutes from the hospital to my front door. You knocked two whole minutes off of your average time." There was a slight pause as House processed the information he'd been spewing out. "Wilson. Were you _speeding _for _me?"_ House cracked a slight smile and placed his hand over his heart in mock affection. "I'm touched."

"Oh, shut up. I can't believe I risked getting a ticket for you." He stood back up and moved the wheelchair next to House's right hip. "In."

To Wilson's amazement, House obeyed the command with a smile still plastered to his face and scooted from the ottoman and into the awaiting chair with a grunt.

House turned the chair around and backed out of the room, minding his leg. As he wheeled down the hall, his gravelly voice bounced off the walls and carried back to Wilson who was busy putting away the first aid kit.

"Would you order the damn pizza now? I'm starving!"

Some things never changed.

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A/N: I'll try really hard to get a new chapter up before the end of the year. As usual, any and all comments and concrit welcome. :)


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Yes, I'm alive. Real life has taken over and I rarely have time to really sit down and focus on this fic. If anyone is still reading, I apologize profusely and hope to continue working on this story until it's finished. That may take another year but at least I haven't given up! Any and all errors are mine. If you see something blatantly wrong, please let me know. My eyes are blurry from staring at this chapter for so long. Hope you enjoy it!**

Chapter 16

"Looks good," Masterson said, probing at the healing incisions on House's left leg,"no infection."

He was sitting on the exam table, injured leg stretched out in front of him for all the world to see. His leg was three different shades of green with some purple and yellow thrown in for good measure. Pink lines criss-crossed his skin, evidence of the gauze wrap that had been wrapped securely around his leg for the last several days.

He couldn't hold back the hiss that escaped as Masterson peeled away the gauze that had adhered to the side of his foot. Fresh blood stains were evident along with some slight oozing from the incision.

"Looks like you tore some stitches."

House leaned back on his elbows, grimacing. "Wow, glad you told me that because I would have never guessed, being a doctor and all." He sat and waited for the grilling to begin.

"You know that saying, doctors make the worst patients?" Masterson retorted, staring at the wound suspiciously. "Something caused this," he continued, "they don't just tear on their own."

"Maybe it was your lousy sew- ow!" House responded, jumping as Masterson wiped it down with antiseptic. It burned like hell. His mouth formed a tight-lipped grimace, refusing to admit what had happened in his bathroom. Maybe his silence would be enough to satisfy the other doctor.

He was wrong.

The orthopedist looked over his shoulder at Wilson. "Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? I mean for him."

Of course he'd ask _him. _"Hey, I'm over here." House interrupted, waving his hands in the air like some castaway waiting to be rescued on a desert island. The distraction wasn't working. Wilson was about to open his big mouth and he had no way to stop him.

Masterson grabbed some fresh gauze and lifted House's lower leg off the table, setting off all kinds of fireworks from his knee to his toes. He couldn't prevent a hiss from escaping. Any little movement sent shock waves through the broken bones. The only good thing was that his right leg was barely noticeable right now.

His lower leg was poked and prodded as he continued to be interrogated by his doctor. "I'd ask _you_ how it felt but you'd deflect and wouldn't give me a straight answer." Masterson turned back toward Wilson again, House's leg still in his grasp, "Like I was saying, anything unusual?"

Wilson was edging towards the door as his left hand crept to the back of his neck. "He...did...take a fall...in the bath-" An evil glare from the exam table stopped Wilson's comment in its tracks. "What? He asked!"

Masterson turned toward House, who was suddenly finding the inspirational poster on the wall more interesting than the conversation. "And you weren't going to tell me, were you?"

"Nothing to say. Leg's still intact and besides, you've got everything in there screwed together tighter than a couple of horny teenagers, I'd need a crowbar to undo what you've done." That almost sounded like a compliment and Masterson seemed to take it that way.

"Thanks, but I've put too much work into that leg. You're getting new pictures just to be sure." The doctor gently set the injured leg back on the table, his swollen foot still bare.

House rolled his eyes and complained, "Oh, come on! You and I both know I didn't do anything to damage your precious work."

Besides, how much worse could he really injure it? Yes, he remembered his foot hitting the edge of the divider between his tub and toilet but didn't really think anything of it. At the time, everything was hurting and he was more concerned about getting off the floor without breaking anything else.

Then House slowly raised his eyes and saw a very familiar sight.

Masterson had perfected the Wilson pose. Hands on hips, furrowed eyebrows, legs slightly apart. But, for some reason, it was much more intimidating coming from a behemoth like him. Especially when he spoke with a voice that could make a Rottweiler pee. "So you want to have two permanent limps then?"

"Ha. Ha." House replied, eyebrows still furrowed in wasn't funny and he wasn't going to fall for the intimidation act.

"I wasn't joking," the other doctor replied, mouth drawn in a straight line.

House watched helplessly as his surgeon placed butterfly bandages over the incision where it had split open, pulling the skin closed. "This is healed well enough. Doesn't need new stitches." New gauze was placed over his foot and wrapped around his lower leg before the brace was refastened in place.

"Can I put my pants back on now?" Luckily, he had some basketball pants that snapped up the sides and made it much easier to get dressed. He had used them almost every day after his infarction and was glad he kept several pairs around. Too bad they didn't make snap up boxers too.

"Nope. Not yet." Masterson motioned toward the wheelchair sitting in the corner of the room "Back in the chair. Let's go."

"How much did Wilson pay you to get rid of me?" House complained, scooting his rear carefully back into the chair, his unsnapped pant leg hanging off his left hip and on to the floor like some forgotten cape.

Before he could even blink, gigantic hands were carefully lifting his legs onto the foot rests, the left one still horizontal to support his broken leg. The unsecured pant leg was placed loosely over the cumbersome brace like a shroud.

It still shocked him how Masterson could be such a skilled surgeon and so gentle with hands the size of baseball mitts.

"Bye." Masterson smiled and waved at him like a damn flight attendant. He wanted to wipe that smile right off his face, but since he couldn't even reach above the other man's armpits at the moment, that would have been a little difficult.

The burly doc called for his assistant who must have been standing right behind the door. Within two seconds, the blonde with the big boobs appeared in the doorway. "Sandy, see to it that _Doctor _House makes it to radiology and doesn't take any detours on the way."

"Will do, doctor," she replied with a smile. Suddenly he lurched forward, the assistant responding like a good little minion.

"Dictator!" House yelled over his shoulder as he was shoved out the door. He wasn't really _that _upset about the additional x-rays. Any sane doctor who wanted to cover his ass from any lawsuits would have done the same thing. He had to put on a bit of a show to make sure Wilson was distracted adequately enough to not suspect anything. So far, his and Masterson's plan was working perfectly, even if Wilson had caused Masterson to call an audible with the additional X-rays.

As the door was closing behind him, he overheard Masterson 's deep baritone voice say "So, what's going on with that elbow?"

A self satisfied smile crept across his lips as he was pushed down the hallway.

Wilson was so busted.

A half hour later, the three doctors were gathered back in the exam room, only one actually resembling a real doctor.

House was sitting in the wheelchair with his left leg elevated, his sweatpants covering the bandages and brace. Wilson was reluctantly taking up residence on the exam table, sans shirt and tie.

"Ha! I win." House declared, pointing an accusing finger at him, and then raising it in triumph. "that's a hundred you now owe me."

"Oh...shut up. It's _not _fractured! It's a _chip!" _Wilson desperately argued, _"_and I never made that bet in the first place!" He was being double teamed.

"Wanna shake on it?" House held out his right hand and leaned forward enough to stick that hand basically in his lap.

Wilson leaned away from the offered hand, "ha ha, very funny." His elbow twinged just thinking about the action. It was already aching from all of the twisting and manipulating Dr Masterson and his assistants had done in the last half hour.

"I believe the definition of a _chip_ is when a piece _fractures _away from the bone." House stated. He had that smug look on his face. The one he liked to wear when he knew he was right, which, unfortunately was most of the time.

"Thank you, Dr. Webster," Wilson replied with disdain.

Wilson continued to sit on the exam table like a punished child, cradling his injured elbow protectively in his lap. Goosebumps broke out on his bare arms as his eyes fixated on his dress shirt and tie hanging loosely on the hook behind the door. Maybe if he focused hard enough, he could will them back across the room and into his lap. Right. And maybe his name was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

His eyes wandered back to his so-called friend sitting a mere three feet from him, leaning back in the wheel chair with arms crossed, still wearing that damn smirk on his face.

This was mutiny. Not only had House mislead him into hostile territory, he found the natives to be very demanding and non-negotiable. They attacked from all sides and had him surrounded before he could set up a defense.

As soon as House left the room, Masterson had wrapped a meathook of a hand around his shoulder and led him to the exam table. It was futile to try and escape. After all, the man was an ex-lineman in the NFL. He was a good six inches taller and probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Wilson decided to surrender and live to fight another day.

Masterson then completed a thorough exam of his injured arm, all the while talking about how House had concocted this elaborate plan to trap Wilson in the exam room with the orthopedic doctor. Masterson explained, while probing his elbow, "but that all went out the window when you mentioned his fall in the bathroom. Worked out perfectly, don't you think?" As Wilson succumbed to the exam, Masterson looked up from his exam and met Wilson's eyes, "You know, this just means he cares about you."

Wilson wasn't sure how he had felt about that. On one hand, he was flattered that House did care enough to want him to seek medical attention. On the other hand, why couldn't he be like a normal person and say, "hey, I'm concerned about you and I think you should get that arm checked." But since when had House ever been normal?

"House can be very cunning, don't you think?." Masterson stated, sounding like he was trying to exculpate himself from this entire sting operation.

"If that's what you want to call it."

"I had already suspected something was up the other day when you nearly cried after shaking my hand," Masterson added while poking and prodding the tender elbow.

"I wasn't crying. It hurt, okay?" Wilson said, defending himself.

"And yet, you ignored it," added Masterson, "gee, that sounds vaguely familiar. I think House is rubbing off on you."

He was about to say the same thing to him. His earlier comment about him crying was definitely something House would blurt out to one of his own patients.

House sure did have a way of rubbing off on others just like a damned dry-erase marker. No matter how hard you tried, you always ended up getting some on you.

Why had he felt like he had to defend himself? House was going to need help during the next month or so and he wanted to be there for him. Simple as that. He wasn't ignoring his own injury so much as he was trying to fight through the pain, wanting to be there for House, who, in his mind was in a much more difficult situation than dealing with just a sore elbow.

Maybe it was more than that. Was he just being a good friend or was it something else? He had already failed miserably at his first attempt playing the superhero, sending House to the hospital with a badly broken leg. Maybe in his own mind he was trying to make amends for getting his friend into this situation in the first place. Damn his own ridiculous sense of responsibility with a side dish of guilty conscience thrown in for good measure.

After more poking and prodding, he had been escorted to radiology by a different assistant. Was her name Kathy? Katie? Something like that. He couldn't remember offhand.

Radiology had been an experience in and of itself, causing him to come up with all kinds of new names for the assistant. His arm was bent into impossible positions while X-rays were snapped. Spikes of pain shot through his elbow with each new position. He was suddenly understanding House's dislike for anyone involved in orthopedics.

A pang of sympathy went out for his friend, wondering what he must have gone through not only recently with his broken leg but with the infarction as well. Those rehab appointments must have been hell for him. House's bad moods following his ortho appointments made much more sense to him now.

When Wilson finally returned to the exam room, his elbow had been on fire, arm lying helplessly in his lap.

Back in the office, Masterson looked at Wilson with a cunning grin. "Guess what? You get to schedule some surgery with me."

Wilson's mouth dropped open as his stomach started doing flips. Surgery? He knew it wouldn't just go away on its own but he had other priorities, like helping out House. There was no way he could do the surgery now.

That baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. "See here? Olecranon fracture." A massive finger pointed at the culprit on the film. "Possibly impinging on the ulnar nerve."

Well, that would explain the lightning bolts shooting down his arm whenever he rotated it or tried to make a fist.

Wilson went on the defense. "Can't it wait? I need to help House with-"

"Yeah, you did a great job with that yesterday," House scoffed, "remember the part where you dropped me on my head?"

"Obviously not hard enough..." Wilson mumbled at the wall. House did have a point though. How was he to be the physical support House needed when the slightest jolt to his arm sent him to his knees?

House ignored the jibe,"just get it done and you'll be back saving the world and doing breast exams in no time." House's demeanor suddenly softened, blue eyes meeting his with what looked like a bit of concern. "It's obviously bothering you."

"Honestly, it doesn't hurt that much. Only when I bump it or make a fist...or grasp things."

The other two doctors stared suspiciously at Wilson as he tried to plead his case.

Masterson leaned against the edge of the counter. "Well, I guess as long as you never bump your elbow, hold anything or ever move it, you should be just fine."

Wilson raised his left hand in defeat. "Okay, okay. I get your point." The pain was getting worse, he just didn't want to admit it. Surgery was inevitable.

"It'll be a piece of cake." Masterson was playing the doctor role perfectly.

"Yeah, for you." Why was he making this such a big deal? It was a simple procedure that would take no more than a half hour. Maybe because he felt a deep seeded obligation to help his friend. Be his so-called 'leg' to stand on. God, he was sounding so corny. Maybe he should start humming 'Lean on Me' and really give House some ammunition for his already full arsenal of biting remarks about his own need for neediness.

"You'll be home by noon. Once that bone chip is removed, it'll feel much better. You'll only be laid up for a day or so, probably in a sling for less than a week. Of course you won't be able to lift heavy things, like your briefcase or House for a few weeks."

"He loves to bench press me at home. How will he survive?" House interrupted.

"Here. This should help until you see me again." Wilson's elbow was gently wrapped in soft gauze for protection. Then he was handed his dress shirt which he carefully pulled over the wrapped arm.

"Do you think you need a sling?" The orthopedist asked while writing something in Wilson's chart.

Wilson contemplated the idea all of about one second. "No, it's okay. I need to drive home and it's really not that bad," he lied. He looked down at his sleeve, the thin fabric stretched over the area around his elbow. He looked like a mutated version of Popeye. Slowly, he flexed his elbow. The wrap was snug but not too tight. It still allowed some motion but would help protect it from any further bumps.

Masterson returned his attention back to House. "You need to let me know when things like this happen," he said, gesturing towards his outstretched leg.

"If you figure out how, let me know," Wilson added, slowly getting up from the exam table.

Masterson tapped on House's left thigh lightly. "I'll get you in a cast hopefully by the end of the week once we get those staples out."

"I can't wait...," House replied flatly as he reached for the metal rims of the wheelchair and pivoted around in place and headed for the door, Wilson following closely behind.


End file.
